


Run, Rabbit, Run

by Brennah_K



Category: NCIS
Genre: " Fear", "All Fall Apart, "Bitter and Blue", "Run Rabbit Run", "Somebody Saved You", AU Judgement Day 2, AU Port to Port Killer arc, Anthony DiNozzo Leaves NCIS Team, BAMF Jonas Cobb, BAMF Tony DiNozzo, Did you really think Trent Kort was telling the truth?, Jimmy Palmer's hidden depths, Jonas Cobb needs...., Language, M/M, Manipulative and Calculating Leon Vance, Songfic, Tony!Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25741477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennah_K/pseuds/Brennah_K
Summary: I attribute/blame this fic on covid and a fifth re-read of HellBells Tony’s Little Black Book series of series, but most especially the following passage (fromTony’s Little Black Book: Shades of Grey, chp 22):“You know how you stop a monster?” Gibbs spoke softly, remembering having a similar conversation with Shannon during his darkest moments.“How?” Tony asked because if he’d figured that out then he might have been able to deal with everything so much easier.“You love them.”It's a rare pair if you can't find it four pages deep in a google search, right?Rare Pair: Anthony DiNozzo/Jonas Cobb
Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo/Jonas Cobb, Past Jimmy Palmer/Michelle Lee
Comments: 33
Kudos: 192





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tony's Little Black Book (Shades of Grey)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700892) by [hellbells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbells/pseuds/hellbells). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: [ "All Fall Apart" by Michael Weatherly](https://youtu.be/QvEKa2vinxM)

ブレンキン

_September 28, 2008, NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC._

Director Leon Vance set aside the three files on his desk that he’d asked Cynthia to prepare for Gibbs’ new team, before turning his attention to the remaining two files waiting for his decision. The reassignments for Agents McGee and David were already settled, in his mind; it was DiNozzo’s fate he was currently debating. 

Two options: the Sea Hawk as Agent Afloat or … a rabbit run (not its official title, of course, but Leon’s mental reference drawn from a 1940’s song his father had occasionally played when Leon was young). 

The Sea Hawk was the easy choice, needing a temp Agent Afloat to replace Neilander, who’d been seriously injured after a misstep down a ships ladder caused a wrenching break that required surgery and pinning to correct. Captain Owens ran a tight ship, so even DiNozzo’s lack of experience in a shipboard environment wouldn’t be an impediment, much less a challenge. The investigations, if required would be limited, and all well within the scope of his past experiences. It would be an easy duty, with a predictable location, list of responsibilities, end date. DiNozzo probably wouldn’t be required to use even his current skill set, much less test or stretch his skills. 

The rabbit run was nearly the exact opposite. NCIS customarily relied on electronically secure communications to transmit sensitive information and outsourced the delivery of critically sensitive documents to naval intelligence as needed, so courier assignments were not only uncommon but almost unheard of in recent years. Assigning an NCIS field agent to act as a document courier hadn’t occurred since before Director Morrow had begun his Directorship of NCIS. In fact, as far as Leon knew, he’d personally been the last junior agent assigned as a courier… and on a rabbit run as well, though for a different reason. While Director Cresswick (two directors before Morrow) had assigned Leon to the exhausting task as punishment for having the audacity to be black and a federal agent, hoping to run the, then, much younger black agent off, Leon was considering the assignment as a means to pin down the truth of who and what Agent Anthony DiNozzo was; having read DiNozzo’s full service record and compared it to the Agent’s behavior and reputations, which told very different stories of the man, Leon both wanted and needed a clearer idea of the agent to better account for the agent in his future plans. 

A rabbit run, as Leon had experienced it, was a quixotic, uncharted assignment camouflaged under the task of simply carrying documents back and forth from branch to branch, between agencies, and on occasion between agencies and agents. The ‘rabbit’ had no home base, received its instructions for the next task on arrival at the end destination of the previous task, vacillated between the tasks expected (delivering sensitive documents) and ‘extracurricular’ tasks from picking up dead drops and infiltrating a UC’s cover environment to deliver information or ‘supplies’ (without exposing the UC or himself) to potentially meeting with newly recruited assets and gathering information on their cursory circumstances, and any of a thousand tasks in between. There was no set deadline or end date, no familiar or consistent back up team, and rarely downtime. In short, the very nature of the assignment was designed to test both the truth of DiNozzo's conflicting reputations and his potential usefulness to Leon. 

“Sir, Agents Gibbs, DiNozzo, McGee, and David have reported as requested.” Cynthia announced, interrupting the director’s concentration. 

“Thank you, Cynthia; send them in.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Glancing at the MCRT, Leon studied how they were standing: McGee and David standing close to Gibbs, DiNozzo standing alone further apart, leaving an obvious gap in the half circle around his desk. ~~~ Interesting ~~~ 

“Let’s cut to the chase shall we?” It wasn’t a question, and their silence confirmed they knew it. 

Picking up the first of the files prepped for the meeting, he extended it to Agent McGee, as he explained. “McGee... I'm moving you across to the cyber crimes unit.” 

“Sir?” McGee questioned, clearly wondering if the move was disciplinary and, if so, for what mistake. 

“The reassignment is not up for discussion, Agent McGee.” Leon cut the questioning off immediately. 

“Officer David, the liaison position with NCIS is being terminated.” He held up his hand to forestall the protest he could see in her eyes even before it reached her lips. “I have already discussed the matter with Director David; the matter is settled, and he anticipates your arrival in accordance with the travel plans provided.” He shut her down, holding out the file until she reluctantly took it. 

Picking up the three he’d set aside earlier, he handed them to Gibbs, commenting “Gibbs, meet your new team; they have been ordered to report for duty at 7:30 am tomorrow, to settle in before you go on rotation.” 

Ignoring Gibbs' tight grimace, Leon instead watched DiNozzo’s narrowing eyes as the agent noticed that there were three files being given to Gibbs instead of two. The agent, wisely, chose not to comment, however. 

Affecting an air of dismissal, Leon picked up the last folder he’d been looking at and handed it to the SFA. 

“Pack a bag, DiNozzo. You are being reassigned; the details and travel plans are contained within.” He paused to push the files into the agent’s hand before he continued. “Use the office next door to familiarize yourself with your assignment, then return the signed file to Cynthia before you leave. You fly out tonight.” 

“Gibbs, Cynthia is putting an appointment on your calendar for tomorrow. She will be able to tell you the time better after you update your schedule. After you meet with your new team tomorrow, we need to discuss certain goals that I would like to set for your new team. “ 

Not giving them room for protest, Leon ordered, “Dismissed,” picking up the last file and thumbing through it as if they’d already left. 

Gibbs was, of course, the first to stalk out of the room, not needing to pause as DiNozzo already had the door open for him and held it open for the junior officers before stepping through himself. 

Leon waited until the sounds of their footsteps carried down the hall, before he leaned back in his chair and stared at the door, considering briefly a ghost impression of the SFAs stiff posture and blanked expression as he followed the others out the door. Despite the man’s silence, it had been abundantly apparent to Leon that DiNozzo had something to say but held back. 

When he felt that he’d picked everything he could from that glimpse, Leon set it aside with a quiet murmur, “Run, Rabbit, run.” 

ブレンキン

_May 16, 2009, Hotel Berthelot, Sector 1, Bucharest, Romania._

“Hei Amice, Amice, deschide uşă.” A knock and man’s voice at the door interrupted Jonas Cobb as he pulled the thin pipe brush out of the barrel. After a moment, the voice changed from speaking Romanian to speaking English, “Hey Buddy, answer the door.” he repeated his earlier greeting before continuing, “I have other customers, you know? And just so you know, I don’t give refunds.” 

While hearing English wasn’t particularly a surprise in Bucharest, hearing the contact code, certainly was. He wasn’t ready to trust the man on the other side of the door, American accent or not, but with his primary weapon disassembled and the visitor probably seconds from deciding to leave to avoid drawing attention, Jonas contented himself with a knife slid into the back of his belt before he answered the door. 

As much as hadn’t been expecting an American accented voice calling the contact code through the hotel door, the appearance of the visitor when the door opened was something he could hardly credit. Standing somewhat over 6’2” with his short, light brown hair gelled and spiked up in glossy spikes; wearing an honest-to-god cheerleader-type, blonde waist length fur jacket with a fluffy hood (complete with flamingo-pink lining) and puffy cuffs over a white 'wife-beater' splashed with pastel paints tucked into jeans that looked like they had been poured on right down to his paint-splashed trainers, the man gave the overall impression of being nothing so much as being possibly the most flamboyant rent boy on the planet… right up until you looked at his face, which told a far different story. 

Anyone who could somehow look past the man’s costume would have seen that the superficial ‘twink’ had a man’s firm jaw, wrinkles, and shadows under and at the edge of his eye line that added decades to any estimate of his age, as sharp, knowing hazel eyes that spoke of an operator … as much as the butt of the gun that just peeked at the edge of his painted on pants at the hip. 

~~~Well, this should be interesting.~~~ He thought, as he stepped back sweeping his hand in a gallant gesture that invited the man in. 

“Thanks,” the man greeted him quietly as soon as the door closed behind him, “Keeping my voice in that high of a register is hard on the throat.” 

“I can’t imagine that jacket’s an easy fit, either.” Jonas answered amused. 

“You’re telling me. The only way I managed it was to cut the stuffing and the inside sleeves under the arms. As long as I keep my arms down, it doesn’t show as much. Keeping it unzipped helps, too. A bit of hassle, but it serves a purpose; aside from it being so blatantly ‘unmasculine’, no one thinks about it being so bulky. Mind if I take it off?” 

“Be my guest,” Jonas ordered, gesturing to the coffee table at the couch instead of the kitchenette table, where he’d been cleaning his gun. 

"With this get up, I can probably get away with being up here at least fifteen- twenty minutes, maybe as much as a half an hour without anyone taking too much notice, but this shouldn’t take that long." The man continued, as he took the short fur jacket. 

Once it was off, the man began efficiently unpacking the jacket and stacking thin cellophane packages as he announced each one’s content: “Leu, Euros, Dollars, Rubles, passports and matching travel papers, a diplomatic id that should get you into any British Embassy, two tac knives, cartridges for both a glock and a sig (wasn’t sure of which you used, so picked up both in multiple calibres), a minimal first aid kit with antibiotics (the yellow’s penicillin based, the blue’s floxacin, I think or vice-versa) and grunt candy, burn phones, I wasn’t read in on that one’s contents,” he finished laying a sealed manilla envelope on top, before giving the jacket a shake to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. With a rustle of plastic, a ziplock bag fell out, and he chuckled. 

"Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten. Not exactly James Bond or Jack Ryan worthy, but sometimes I just miss a taste of home; I figure everyone does, so there’s some spearmint chewing gum, peppermints, some fruit ranchers, and licorice rope, tea bags, sugar packs, instant coffee and dry creamer. Hope there’s something you like, there. Oh, and an ishuffle mini with earbuds and a mix of music, cord and charger."

Despite himself, Jonas laughed at the oddity of it. His handler had made supply drops before as they tracked their lead to the target, but none of the meetings had been like this. 

Before he could comment on that fact, however, the man was already pushing on with the meet: "Now for the bad news. Your handler was found dead last night; at first glance, it looks like a heart attack, but your agency didn’t have anyone close enough to let you know that your op has possibly been compromised much less get someone in to take a closer look at the body or the room he was found in, so tapped NCIS for a favor, and Wa La." he lifted his hands in a ‘so-here-I-am’ sort of gesture before he resumed his explanation, "I assume the manilla envelope has your new instructions or options, but that’s not really my business… just the supply drop. Speaking of which, I haven’t quite reached the fifteen minute mark, but it’s close enough I can probably get out of your hair, without rousing suspicions, so if you’ll walk me to the door, I’ll be on my way."

The man’s grin and mood were catching as he joined Jonas walking back to the door. When they reached it, he murmured a soft, “wait” while he stopped to unbutton the top of his jeans and drop his zipper suggestively as if he’d been too relaxed to zip it back up after their presumed activities, then pulled his wife beater mostly out of where they’d been tucked. Slipping his fingers into back pockets that Jonas would have assumed were too tight to carry anything, the man pulled out a still-wrapped condom between two fingers and handed it to Jonas with a wink. 

“Just in case you’d like to leave some supporting evidence behind for the maid.” he purred, then reached into the so far untouched jacket pocket and pulled out a mostly-uncrumpled cigarette and matches to light it. When he was done, he nodded for Jonas to open the door and practically ‘slinked’ around him, drawing Jonas slightly out into the hallway with an arm wrapped loosely around his neck. 

His voice husky this time, the man leaned in close, despite speaking in a voice meant to carry and told him, “You need more company while you’re visiting Bucharest, Amice, you’ll remember Tonti, yes?” then hovered an open mouthed kiss so close to Jonas’ lips that Jonas was certain that not even a high-power scope could have picked up that they hadn’t actually touched, before he pulled back, licked his lips, and turned away. With the pink lined jacket thrown over his shoulder, his clothes in disarray, and the cigarette being lifted from to and from his mouth in long-limbed languid gestures, the man looked nothing so much as ‘well-fucked’ as he walked away with a hip-swinging gait that seemed to hitch suggestively. 

And Jonas… staring after him in bemusement until he reached the stairwell and took the first turn of it with a waved little parting gesture that might as well have said ‘go back inside’ … Jonas... was probably giving a fairly good impression of besotted - only realizing that the man had somehow managed, at some point as they went through the door, to unhook Jonas’s own pants and separate the placket - when he sat down at the kitchenette table. 

While he had never considered his sexuality to be anything other than generally straight, or at least unaffected bu most of his own gender, Jonas could certainly appreciate the effect and effectiveness of the man’s departure. Shaking the thought off, Jonas returned his attention to the disassembled weapon, and quickly finished cleaning and reassembling it. Once finished, Jonas tucked it away into his shoulder holster, packed away his recently delivered supplies, and sat down to stare at the sealed manilla envelope. 

ブレンキン

_July 6, 2009, Flight 5083, Pacific Air, Sydney, Australia to Tokyo, Japan._

// Hey Globe-trotter, did I catch you sleeping?// 

// Nope, Midair, somewhere over the pacific.// 

// Really?!? Tony, you only flew into Sydney, yesterday night !!! // 

// What can I say, Gremlin? I’m living the life. // 

// Tony… Did you at least get a chance to sleep and eat? //

// Of course I did. // 

// Tony…. // 

// Gremlin … // 

// Tony, I’m serious. Did you get a chance to sleep? // 

// Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, Jimmy. // 

// Tony, this isn’t a joke. You need to watch your health. // 

// I appreciate the concern, Gremlin, but you don’t need to mother hen me. I’m getting lots of exercise; hell, outside of airtime, I’m on my feet close to 80% of the day. I’ve given up fried foods almost entirely, stuck with close to 90% plant based foods, and I’ve probably lost another five pounds. // Tony answered Jimmy’s text honestly, not bothering to mention that with his constant country to country traveling his stomach hadn’t been able to tolerate much past fresh fruit and produce and that some of his weight loss had probably come as much from his frequent stomach upset and lack of appetite as from the change in his diet. 

// That all sounds good, Tony, but sleep is a part of it, too… and sufficient down time to de-stress. You need time to relax, Tony. Really relax. // 

// Jimmy, cool it! // Tony huffed as he typed. As much as he appreciated Jimmy’s concern and almost daily check-ins, the assignment was what it was: a punishment for letting the Director get killed on his watch, and until Vance and the other Directors and ADs decided he’d towed the line and paid for his mistake (even if the mistake had been following his then director’s orders) … this was his life. 

On the grand scale of things, while it was exhausting and almost impossible to predict where he’d be or what he’d be doing from one day to the next ior even whose orders he’d be following, it wasn’t the worst he’d lived through. At least, as far as he could tell, none of his assignments had been anywhere near as shady as the Benoit op, and he was getting lots of practice brushing up on the languages he knew and even adding a few he only knew the bare bones of from languages they were similar to. 

// Okay, this is me cooling it. // Jimmy responded back after a couple of minutes, and even the beep of his text alert sounded a little bit mournful. 

~~~ Aw, Christ, Jimmy. ~~~ Tony apologized mentally to his friend; although, he didn’t text the apology knowing it would only worry Jimmy more to see him breaking rule #6. Instead, he went with a DiNozzo standard: distract and misdirect. 

// So, I’ve told you about myself; now it’s your turn, spill. What’s the gossip around the water cooler? Is Kenny from the mailroom still having a torrid affair with Trina from the evidence room? … And the lovely Miss Lee, has anyone I know been petitioning her for a sidebar or private hearing to discuss her briefs? Inquiring minds want to know. // 

//You are ridiculous. Did you know that? Kenny has never expressed any interest in Trina; he’s completely committed to Emily in Accounting and has already met her parents and little brother… and yes, I took your advice and asked Michelle to dinner. We went to the little italian place on Melrose then went roller skating. It was fun. // 

// Dinner and skating? That’s all you're going to tell me? Come on, Gremlin. I’m living vicariously through you. // 

// Sorry, Tony, gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, but tell you what, next time you settle down and sleep for at least six hours straight, give me a call, and I’ll tell you what I heard about Tim’s last date from Abby. Deal? // 

Reading the text, Tony shook his head and chuckled, ignoring the wistful longing that momentarily swept through him as he gave in to missing the other members of the MCRT’s team and extended team. He took a long breath and let it out, imagining that the feelings of longing were being exhaled with it. 

Although he’d never admit it, Tony may or may not have - on one more than one occasion - picked up a ‘self-help’ book or two and read up on dealing with stress. They were just for light, in-flight reading and - more often as not - ended up in a trash bin as he exited various airport terminals. Controlled breathing and visualization seemed to be author favorites, from what he’d seen, but so far Tony hadn’t noticed any difference. Inhale or exhale, the feeling of loss and longing for the friends and coworkers he’d left behind in DC never really quite left; though, some days it was stronger than others - like days that Jimmy checked in to let him know how everyone was doing back in DC or everyone but him (even having Ziva summoned back to the her desk all the way from Israel). Pushing the thought and longing aside, Tony took another long inhale as he typed. 

// Hey, Gremlin, you know what? I have roughly another seven hours before we set down in Tokyo, so I think I’ll take you up on your deal and take a catnap between now and then… and call you after I land. Okay? // 

“Okay, Tony, that’s fine. Talk to you tomorrow?// 

// Tomorrow. // It wasn’t quite a promise, but enough of one that Jimmy wouldn’t press the issue. 

// Night, Tony. // 

Closing the text app, Tony slid his phone into his pocket, using the same move to catch up the thin cords connecting his ear buds to his ishuffle mini and pressing the button to start the next playlist up. 

ブレンキン

_August 29, 2009, Swat Valley, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, Pakistan._

Pulling the m24 minis down, away from his eyes, Jonas tucked the small binoculars into his pocket, sealing the velcro closure firmly down over them. The killzone was set; the target lured to the warehouse with the bait of valuable information for the taking (US armament specifications and identified critical weaknesses) and the target’s identity just now, confirmed by sight by Jonas, entering the warehouse alone. 

He had a six minute window until the next patrol. 

Spitting the last quarter of the spearmint chewing gum he’d been grinding between his teeth into his hand, Jonas wrapped it in the tinfoil wrapper, pinching it into a small ball, pushed it into his pants pocket and sealed the velcro he’d sewn into the pants pocket, then pushed himself into a sprinter’s pose and pushed off. 

In seventeen seconds, he crossed the field to the chain link fence. In twenty-four, he was over the fence. Twelve seconds later, he was sliding through the door that the target had propped open. Forty-two seconds passed before he found the man, three before he’d drug the man into the warehouse bathroom/designated killzone, and seventy-six seconds elapsed in the time it took him complete his mission with the small tactical knife he’d kept from the last supply drop. 

Twenty-nine seconds passed before he could get his breathing and heart rate back under control. It took him nineteen seconds to sweep the room, constantly wiping sweat from his eyes, then thirty seconds to find his way back to the door they’d come through, another sixteen seconds to reach the chain link fence, twenty-nine to scale the fence, and nineteen seconds to cross the field back to his starting point and dive back into the cover of the high grass, with forty-two seconds to spare. 

Once the next patrol passed, Jonas rose back to his feet, pulled the earphones out of his pocket, slapped the pocket to trigger the small player, and struck off at a steady swift jog, ignoring the ache in his chest as a man’s smoky baritone filled his ears. 

> I lost my youth and I'm glad to be done with [it]  
>    
>  all that [is] beauty and [all that is] truth,  
>    
>  [play fickle] friends [in our] blind pursuit.  
>    
>  We all fall apart in a black-and-white world  
>    
>  Faith riddle[d] [and warped as an ironwood burl].  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> My little apocalypse [in service, to the] metropolis,  
>    
>  th[is] catastrophe [is what became of] ... me.  
>    
>  … [A] doomsday machine [put] on parade,  
>    
>  but then [by] the fail-safe [I] was betrayed.  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> [A] curfew is set[ting over my] heart.  
>    
>  The siren is wailing as we all fall apart.  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> What if what you get is what you want,  
>    
>  but what you want is wrong?  
>    
>  This [dark silence] stills at dawn;  
>    
>  ten paces and you´re gone.  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Everything then was drawn to extremes,  
>    
>  every new want and notion's come apart at the seams.  
>    
>  All those grand [ideals and] gestures [served up in a silver spittoon] -  
>    
>  [feed full your] vertigo and the exit plan to a hotel room.  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> We all fall apart though you think it's your invention.  
>    
>  [Honor] for honorable mention has no good intention.  
>    
>  No, I said [honor’s] honorable mention has no good intention.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> The curfew [has] set the hour of [my] heart  
>    
>  The siren is wailing as we all fall apart 
> 
> _Adapted from “All Fall Apart”_ By Michael Weatherly


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ “Bitter and Blue” by Michael Weatherly](https://youtu.be/qa2lS3PH8-M)

ブレンキン

_August 29, 2009, Swat Valley, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, Pakistan._

Backing away from the wasp’s nest of activity, Tony missed the shadow that had turned to follow in his retreat - his attention fully focused on being far enough away from the scene that he would not be suspected. His cover as an American aid worker polling the neighborhood for an inventory of what supplies were needed in the next day’s delivery was dangerous enough, despite ‘sleepers’ (if they could be called that) being happy enough to let foreign aid provide supplies; being suspected of any involvement with the missing, possibly dead Al Qaeda operative would see him buried so deep in the Pakistani version of a black site that his previous existence up to that point would only be verifiable through tax records and the fading memories of former coworkers. 

As uncharitable as the thought was, he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what Vance had hoped for when the director assigned him to the never-ending gauntlet the assignment had become. 

As soon as he felt he was far enough away to risk it, he ducked into the deepest shadowed alley he could find and pulled out the burn phone with his one contact number. Making certain it was silenced before opening the contacts, he quickly dialed the number and waited for the response. 

“Agent DiNozzo, what is your status?” 

“Well, it’s a lot better than what it would have been if anyone else had been dialing you.” Tony groused, uncomfortable with how easily his cover could have been blown. Hell, his handlers in Philly had known better than that. 

“Agent, you’re forty-five minutes late in making contact,” the obvious rookie on the other end of the line answered, not even acknowledging his mistake. 

“All the more reason you should have been careful how you answered, if I’d been picked up by opposition, the way you just answered would have guaranteed a fun couple of rounds with their interrogators and probably at least one bullet to the head.” 

“Agent, what is your status?” 

“On the way to getting seriously pissed off, is what my status is.” Tony spat; he didn’t ask for a lot from his contacts/temp handlers on the various ‘errands’ he’d been assigned since being bounced from the MCRT, but at least pretending that he wasn’t expendable didn’t seem like too much to ask even if they didn’t know him from Adam. 

The put-upon sigh at the other end of the line was almost enough to make him hang up. Almost. 

“Were you able to complete your assignment, Agent DiNozzo?” The dick asked after a moment, as if he was the one being provoked. 

“No...” Tony answered with a grimace before he could elaborate, though, he was cut off by dickhead’s voice again. 

“Explain.” 

“Your contact didn’t make the drop.” He began, only to be cut off again. 

“Are you certain? Were you thorough in…” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there. What’s your name by the way?” Tony interrupted this time. 

“Agent, my name is hardly material to this conversation. I was asking if you were thorough in verifying that the package wasn’t there. It may have been quite small.” 

“Well, you can tell me your name or I’ll just use whatever name comes to mind at the moment. I think you’ll prefer the former.” Tony continued obstinately, keeping an ear out for any change in sounds at either end of the alley. 

After a repeat of the put-upon sigh, the man huffed, “It’s Henry, Agent DiNozzo,” and his tone told Tony that was a lie. 

“No, I don’t think it is. You sound like a Richard. No, not quite, something shorter... less impressive... Dick, I think. That sounds right. So listen, Dick, you don’t mind me calling you Dick, do you? Good. So listen, Dick. I did check the drop point thoroughly, and there was no camera, microchip, jump drive, laser-etched diamond or micro-recording tie-clip to be found (Tony smirked, throwing in the spy movie tech just to be annoying), but you want to know why I’m sure the drop wasn’t made?” he asked but continued before the man could answer: “The reason that I know the drop wasn’t made, Dick, is that I staked out the drop site since last night and kept my beady bloodshot little eyes trained on the crates all night long right through to the scheduled pick up time… and you know what I saw? Nothing, no one even came within twenty feet of the drop point. No one tripped over the crates, threw trash near them, backed into them with their car, or even rode by on a bike. The drop didn’t happen.” 

“Understood,” Dick answered grudgingly. “What are your plans to make contact with the…” 

“I’m not.” Tony interrupted again. “When he didn’t show, I went to check Waseem’s flat. I don’t know what’s happened to him, but from the activity I saw in and around his place, he was either caught or disappeared. So no, I’m not going to wade into that and try to make contact, and before you ask, no, without back-up or any other reliable contacts on the ground, I’m not going to try to extract him either. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Dick, but caucasion features kind of stick out here, and with the hornet’s nest all stirred up, no one who doesn’t already know and trust me will want to be seen with me, much less give me shelter or information.” 

“Huuuhhhh,” Dick grumbled something under his breath, before seeming to put his hand over the microphone to speak to someone else, making Tony want to tell him, “use the mute button, idiot” but he refrained, long enough for Dick to come back online. “What are your plans, then?” 

Tony broke off from planning the scathing paragraph in his after-operation report that he’d be using to describe the idiot rookie, who should have been working out withdrawal instructions and travel plans to give him from the minute he’d heard the meet fell-through, to answer, “Well, Dick, I’m going to withdraw to the aid center and give them the results of the polling, like the good little aid worker I’m supposed to be - while you are going to get on that computer of yours and start booking my safe passage out of here, if that’s not too much to ask. I'll keep this phone a little while longer, so don’t worry about looking for the other numbers, yet, but next time, wait until you hear my voice and check-in code before calling out my name, yeah? I’d like to avoid the torture if I can. DiNozzo, out.” DiNozzo growled, slamming the phone shut before the idiot could say anything else. 

~~~Wonder if that’s how Gibbs’ phone manners got to be the way they are. Many more calls like that, and mine’ll be right there too. ~~~ 

Pushing the thought aside, Tony shoved the phone into his pocket and checked the alley entrance before stepping back out into the street picking the nearest he saw to ‘poll’, pleasantly showing the man his list of supplies when asked for it, then checking down items the man indicated and telling him the next day’s delivery schedule. Maintaining the ruse would take double to triple the time to get back to the aid center, but offered a better chance of him returning than a casual stroll through the streets. 

ブレンキン

_August 29, 2009, Swat Valley, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, Pakistan._

Freezing as the familiar agent slid into the same alley that Jonas had used to evade the man’s notice as he trailed the 'other' American agent, Jonas slowed his breathing and loosened his jaw to let the breath flow more freely and quietly out instead of holding it, which would have eventually required a louder gulp of air when the need for air demanded. The agent seemed far too distracted to notice him; however, as he passed within barely a foot, pressing himself into the shadows along the same wall and pulled out a phone. 

> “ Well, it’s a lot better than what it would have been if anyone else had been dialing you.” 

~~~What the hell could his contact have said to tick him off or blow his cover that quickly?~~~ Jonas wondered, bemused. The last time that he had seen the man, the agent had seemed unlikely to be easily flustered or angered and oddly adept at controlling the persona he projected. Listening further Jonas shook his head at the brief lecture that the agent gave his handler, repressing a wince at what must have been proof of a sloppy or careless handler. So far, the handlers Jonas had been assigned - even if they were assholes - had at least been professional. 

> “Your contact didn’t make the drop.” 

The man’s growled comment jerked at Jonas’s nerves. Considering where he had picked up the agent’s trail, barely fifty yards away from the tenement of the man he’d killed less than half an hour earlier, the announcement woke an unpleasant sense of alarm. Even without his recent training, Jonas had never believed in coincidences and finding the agent staring toward the flat he’d been intending to break into and sweep for any additional information to take back… didn’t feel like just a coincidence, it felt like an rpg striking midrange - far enough away that you didn’t catch the shrapnel but close enough to let you know you were about to run into something ugly. 

When the agent had appeared to make the same decision Jonas had, that it would be suicide to try to enter the flat amidst the uproar, no doubt spawned by the discovery of his target’s death, and tried to retreat, Jonas had followed to get more information on why the agent was there (whether there was more than one agency sanctioned to eliminate the target), and possibly arrange an accidental meeting far enough away from the local to seem innocent. Yet again, this was the last thing he’d expected. 

> “No, I don’t think it is. You sound like a Richard. No, not quite a Richard, something shorter, less impressive... Dick, I think. That sounds right. So listen, Dick... you don’t mind me calling you Dick, do you? Good. So listen, Dick. I did check the drop point thoroughly, and there was no camera, microchip, jump drive, laser-etched diamond or micro-recording tie-clip to be found), but you want to know why I’m sure the drop wasn’t made? ... The reason that I know the drop wasn’t made, Dick, is that I staked out the drop site since last night and kept my beady bloodshot little eyes trained on the crates all night long right through to the scheduled pick up time… and you know what I saw? Nothing, no one even came within twenty feet of the drop point, no one tripped over the crates, threw trash near them, backed into them with their car, or even rode by on a bike. The drop didn’t happen.” 

Despite the situation, not to mention his training, Jonas nearly laughed at the agent’s banter, even as he pulled the microchip and mini-camera that he’d found on his target out of his own pocket and grimaced at them. The likelihood that his target and the agent’s contact were one in the same increased the feeling of rpg sights targeting his proximity and stirred the acid feeling in his gut. The agent had said he worked with NCIS when he’d last seen him, and judging by the lack of follow up on that meeting from his newly assigned-handlers, Jonas was certain the man had been telling the truth, which left him doubting the legality and sanctioning of his assignment. 

Either his target, whose execution still filled Jonas’s conscious thoughts like a slowly seeping poison, burning along his nerve endings, imprinting the feeling of the knife he’d used to stab behind the man’s clavicle shearing brachiocephalic trunk at it’s broadest point, where the artery divided between the subclavian artery and the common carotid artery - ensuring that his target bled out quickly … … … either his target was the Al Qaeda operative and threat that the CIA had identified him being and setting the NCIS agent and agency up with misleading information … or Jonas had just executed a foreign operative and mole working for the US interests. While the former was easy enough to believe, and not out of keeping with the hazards of intelligence gathering, well before the NCIS agent’s supply drop in Bucharest, there had been details of his assignment that had lingering irritants whenever he moved forward with the plans: 

The fact that he’d been ordered to destroy any evidence or intel he found, instead of bringing it back for analysis; the fact that both Jonas and his previous now-deceased handler had felt that there were instances where the target’s behavior contradicted the CIA’s profile; the timing of his handler’s death right after they had reported his target stalking out and photographing his cell leader’s meetings with an expat American industrialist… details that fit far more easily into the latter narrative than the former. 

> “Well, I’m going to withdraw to the aid center and give them the results of the polling, like the good little aid worker I’m supposed to be while you are going to get on that computer of yours and start booking my safe passage out of here, if that’s not too much to ask. I'll keep this phone a little while longer, so don’t worry about looking for the other numbers, yet, but next time, wait until you hear my voice and check in code before calling out my name, yeah? I’d like to avoid the torture if I can. DiNozzo, out.” 

~~~ DiNozzo. Good to know.~~~ Jonas filed the agent’s name away for later research, and slid the chip and mini camera back into his pocket as the agent stepped away from the wall and moved toward the entrance, his eyes focused on the light coming into the alley and the bustle of the street beyond. 

Despite his misgivings and suspicions, Jonas would not have been chosen for Operation Frankenstein if he had been prone to acting on impulse - much less capable of surviving it (which he was in no way so naive as to believe that the candidates who’d failed the program had just been sent along on their merry way), and he wouldn’t give in to impulse now, no matter what his instincts were screaming for him to do. He would do his research and step carefully while he did, but if his suspicions were correct… he may have believed he was being trained to do what was right… at least, he’d wanted to believe that, but if all they had been training him to do was be a killer and a monster… Well, he could do that, too. 

ブレンキン

_September 4, 2009, London, England._

Tony carefully shook the hand of the British MI5/MI6 agent who’d assisted his departure from Pakistan, after the rookie handler botched his travel plans, sending him right into the midst of a MI-something operation complete with Bond-worthy explosions and shootouts. While the man had been friendly enough, he had not held back on showing his strength or even seemed to think of doing so, and Tony tended to value keeping his hand intact. Seeming to sense Tony’s hesitation, the agent smirked, and let his hand to pat him on the back. All in all, they’d gotten along alright - after Tony’s clearance (and non-culpability in the death of the contact who’d missed the pick up) had been established. The agent later informed Tony that the man’s death had clearly been an assassination, and that while there were some speculations as to who the responsible parties were, neither NCIS nor its agents were being considered in any of the theories, which was good to know all in all. 

“Have you received your next assignment?” the agent asked, probably already knowing not only that Tony had but likely more details than Tony himself knew. 

“Naples to Mayport, and from there, who knows.” Tony sighed. 

“Sounding a mite home sick there, Mate.” 

“Yeah, ‘a mite’.” Tony agreed, not giving in to the whine that he could feel working up from his gut. It was getting close to eight months since he’d last touched down in the states (as much as Pearl Harbor could be considered stateside) and almost a year since he’d last seen DC. 

“Sounds like you need to put in for Holiday time then.” the agent offered, “Has to be better than sick leave.” 

“To be honest, I’m not even certain who my designated leave rep is.” Tony shared, before he thought better of the complaint and back tracked, “My assignments entailed a number of moves through the year.” Regardless of how he’s felt about the assignment, Tony did understand the concept of professionalism, which didn’t include complaining to ‘outsiders’ about your bosses. 

“Sounds like the didicoi life isn’t your cup of tea?” The agent offered with a smile that Tony might have thought was sympathetic if he hadn’t seen how much the brit seemed to enjoy being on the road and had spoken to some of the ‘deskbound’ aka local field agents as if they were ‘precious little dears’ too fragile to be let out in the world. 

Tony may have been many things, but fragile he was not, and the mild implication pricked at his pride, even as it stiffened his spine, and prompted him to answer, “Oh, I don’t know, after fifteen years deskbound as I believe you described your local field agents, I suppose it will take a little bit of time to get use to the monotony.” 

“Monotony?” The agent took the bait with a smirk. 

“Yep. I haven’t been chained to a serial killer, poisoned with a weaponized antibiotic-resistant plague, threatened by an arms dealer, or thrown out of an airplane even once this year. I’d expected that traveling between so many international sites and ops would offer a bit more stimulation.” Tony answered with a shrug. 

“That’s a pretty big pork pie you’re serving up.” 

“No, not at all; I didn’t even include the mob boss with a contract out for me if I ever step foot in his town, the car bomb, being chained in a sewer by another serial killer, or the two murder investigations. You probably remember, but name’s Anthony D. DiNozzo, junior, with NCIS. I imagine you have the resources to look me up.” 

“Edward Archibald Holmes,” the other agent offered as if they’d just been introduced. Although his gaze still seemed skeptical, his eyes had widened enough at Tony’s nonchalant delivery, that Tony was sure he would be looking up Tony’s service record within five minutes of getting Tony in the cab. 

Instead of putting Tony into a cab though, Holmes waved over a junior agent and ordered, “Take him wherever he needs to go.” 

“Heathrow airport. Terminal 5.” 

“When you reach Naples, you might want to ask who your leave rep is,” Holmes suggested, patting his shoulder again. 

“I might just,” Tony agreed, but after Holmes' earlier suggestion that he was exaggerating his experiences, that's all Tony was prepared to give. 

When the younger agent pulled his car up, Tony nodded to Holmes and climbed in, letting the other agent close the door behind him. Despite his earlier thoughts on professionalism and the manners he’d learned from military school and his mother before that, Tony indulged himself in a bit of momentary rudeness to the junior agent, pulling out the earbuds that he’d bought to replace the pair that had disappeared somewhere between Pakistan and London, almost shoving them into each ear as started singing quietly to himself - not even bothering to try the ishuffle which hadn’t been recharged since leaving Pakistani airspace. 

> I've got a query  
>  So I'll riddle you  
>  You and your theories,  
>  Divine, false, and true

ブレンキン

_September 10, 2009, Innsbruck, Austria._

Pulling apart the tech and supplies he’d purchased from the boutique tech shop, after hurriedly copying the photos from the camera and the contents of the microchip to separate SD cards, Jonas cut the power cord then popped off the back of the notebook computer he’d used to transfer the copied files. With its innards exposed, he grabbed a screwdriver, unscrewed the steel sheathing covering the hard drive’s platter, stabbed at the few delicate welds holding it in place and then grabbed the hammer he’d ‘found’ on his way into the city center, and using them like a chisel to marble quickly destroyed the inner workings of the notebook. He carefully dumped it into a waiting trash bag. Opening a spare burn phone, he pushed and maneuvered the cables until he could fit the two SD cards inside, without the use of tape that could have left a residue, and carefully closed it back before rolling it a reasonably clean sandwich wrapper that he’d grabbed from a trash can to identify the phone from the others benign carried in is backpack. 

When the two were safely tucked away, Jonas turned to the mini camera and micro chip, dropped them into a coarse cloth he usually used to cover tables when he was cleaning his guns, folded it in half and half again until the chip and camera rested in a corner. With a twist he trapped them in place, and liberally applied the hammer, over and over until nothing remained but shattered bits of plastic, glass splinters, and broken bits of circuit board. When he was absolutely certain that nothing could be recoverable, he tilted the cloth and poured the remnants into a parcel post envelope and sealed it carefully before dropping it into his backpack. Finally satisfied that he was ready to make contact, Jonas left the room at the bnb, explaining to the older woman who’d rented it that he’d received an emergency call from home and couldn’t stay, but that he wouldn’t feel right not paying the full night’s rental (using the euros he’d exchanged for some of the American bills at a tourist trap).

After a short detour down an unmonitored alleyway, Jonas headed to a sandwich shop he’d picked out in close range to a post office and with high visibility due to the abundant cctv system running down the block. Once there, he quickly placed an order before retrieving one of the normally packaged burner phones that he’d charged during the afternoon and turning it on. Almost as soon as he’d turned it on, the phone began to ring.”

“LC, speaking,” he answered, working to keep any tone of distrust out of his voice. 

“You’ve been off the grid for an unexpectedly long time, Lieutenant Cobb,” Officer Kort answered. 

“Yes, Sir. My original travel plans required certain detours due to recent events. Innsbruck offered fewer complications, and the weather is quite pleasant with hardly any cloud coverage at all.” he returned, subtly claiming that his decision to travel to Innsbruck had been primary to refute and deflect from any connection to or presence in Pakistan.”

“And your mission?” 

“Should be fine, Sir, I took the full course of antibiotics. The doctor confirmed I’m cured; there’s no chance of the bug coming back.” Well aware that Kort would be using the cctv system to monitor his expressions, Jonas kept his expression and composure sedate as he casually scanned the street.

“Good to hear, and the data?” Kort pressed.

“I picked up some lovely souvenirs for Uncle Daniel. Would you happen to have his address?” Jonas answered, alluding to the training officer who customarily reviewed and scored their training tasks.

“You were ordered to destroy them, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir, but given how much Uncle Daniel likes lamp working, I think he’ll appreciate some of the shards and broken chips I’ve picked up along the way. Would you happen to have his address handy?” Jonas asked a second time, reaching into his backpack to pull out the envelope he’d prepared earlier and a pen. Kort seemed to hesitate for a moment, no doubt studying his expression, before he finally provided an address that Jonas copied as it was dictated. When he’d finished, Jonas held up the envelope, gesturing to the waitress that he’d was running over to drop it in the mail but would return in a moment, then suited actions to words, tucking his phone between his shoulder and chin as he crossed the street and dropped the envelope then returned to the cafe.

“And your current travel plans?” Kort threw out, unquestionably testing whether Jonas was ready to follow training or not. 

Regardless of the truth, it was an easy question for Jonas to answer. “I don’t know, Sir. I’m waiting for my orders to come in, they may want to send me for a check up, before returning me to my old posting or assigning me to a new ship, so I haven’t made any travel plans, yet.” 

Until he had more information to confirm or refute his suspicions, Jonas had no intentions of breaking rank. Their own training reinforced the importance of retaining composure and staying in the role until the very last moment before striking. There was, after all, a small chance that NCIS had been duped, and his target had been a legitimate threat. 

”Understood. Stand by for orders.” Kort ordered before closing the connection. 

When the line went dead, Jonas set his phone by the newly delivered plate, dug his earbuds out, and started the next song he’d found in the queue being sung by the familiar smokey baritone. As the music started, he picked up his sandwich and took the first bite.

> But what about  
>  The gnawing doubt  
>  inside?  
>  Oh, yeah...  
>  Here's mud in your eye!

> Oh the beholder,  
>  So steadfast and true.  
>  Observing the wreckage.  
>  From his point of view...

ブレンキン

_September 13, 2009, American Airlines, Flight 7713, Naples, Italy to Jacksonville, Florida._

Lowering his voice as the stewardesses began to lower the lights, Tony softly continued the song that had been stuck in his head since London. It should have been annoying by this point but there was something in the words that resonated too well with how he’d been feeling lately. Still to avoid annoying others around him, he occasionally changed up the languages and beat he was singing his personal hymn in to distract them from the repetition. Thankfully the lyrics in English, Russian, Spanish, Italian, and Mandarin sounded so distinctly different from each other that no one seemed to have noticed. 

“Sir,” One of the too-young blonde stewardesses rested her hand on his shoulder, and Tony turned to her ready to promise that he’d stop singing, when she cut him off with an unexpected request, “Would you mind singing a little bit louder, please? If you’re not too tired? Several of the passengers have been enjoying your singing and asked us to ask you to raise your voice.” 

Glancing past her to note several hopeful expressions, Tony tried to ignore the blush he felt rising on his cheeks as he nodded and promised, “Just a few more bars.” 

“Thank you, Sir. You really do have such a lovely voice, it’s already put both of the children in your section to sleep.” 

“Happy to be of service,” Tony answered. He could have laughed at the irony of it. That seemed to be the last thing he actually was lately, but he didn’t let his discontent carry over into his voice continuing to sing the bars in Italian as he’d started that round. Regardless of the language he was singing them in, however, the lyrics scrolled through his thoughts in English, the irony of the gloomy phrases being masked by the lyrical language not lost on him in the slightest. 

> In revolt of long  
>  lost hope  
>  Oh, yeah  
>  Here's mud in your eye
> 
> I’m thoughtful and...  
>  Gloomy and...  
>  Bitter and blue  
>  Thoughtful and...  
>  Gloomy and...  
>  Bitter and blue

As he finished, as spattering of quiet applause flittered around the cabin before the other passengers settled into their seats, ready to forget he existed, as the stewardesses lowered the lights a second time. Turning his attention back out the window to watch the plane’s wing cut through the clouds, when his phone vibrated softly with an incoming text, Tony didn’t hesitate to hold the power button down the requisite three seconds to cut it off. 

One of the stewardesses noticed and mouthed a silent ‘Thank You’ but he ignored it, turning back to the window. He didn’t do it for her thanks or the other passengers’ comfort. He just didn’t have much to say to Jimmy at the moment. He’d catch up with him tomorrow. 

ブレンキン

_September 21, 2009, USS Bainbridge, Norfolk, VA._

Petty Officer Mark Burke waited until all of the new assignments stepped into line, before barking, “drop your gear and follow me,” then took off on a jogging tour of the Bainbridge that skimmed the ship from stem to stern in just under seven minutes and left most of the new arrivals panting, lost, and overloaded with information. Once the last newbie arrived, and was bent over panting as he tried to catch, Burke dismissed them with another bark,”grab your gear, find your bunks, and meet me in the mess in fifteen minutes,” then turned to greet Jonas with a smirk. 

“Welcome back, Lieutenant, I didn’t think I’d see you again unless I re-upped.” 

“Petty Officer Burke,” Jonas greeted the petty officer third class with a nod. “Who gave you a crow?” 

“No idea, but it looked like your signature on the recommendation.” 

“No wonder they dragged me off the ship. How’s she doing, anyway?” Jonas bantered back, glad that Burke had been the one assigned for the on-boarding. Waiting until after the petty officer again dismissed the surpised new arrivals with a reminder that they only had fifteen minutes to find their gear, their bunks, and the mess hall, unless they wanted to spend the next week ‘hot racking’ (sharing bunks) with however many other newbies didn’t make it in the time limit, Jonas thought over the various approaches he could take and which would work best with the sometimes wayward petty officer. By the time Burke turned back to him, he knew which one to use. 

“Burke, can I ask you a favor? Feel free to say no if you want to, of course, but would you mind thinking about looking someone up for me? You know the blonde I used to date whenever we docked here? She’s started dating this guy named DiNozzo, with NCIS and seems pretty serious about him. He seems like a pretty slick character. I know we’re not dating anymore, but I just kind of want to look out for her and make certain she’s not getting played or dating some guy whose lying about being married.” Jonas asked, going with the soft-sell, knowing that Burke had seen a wide array of dramas from his four sisters due to their poor choice of dating partners. Given how quickly Burke agreed, there must have been some additional drama since the last time he’d seen the petty officer. 

Before they could discuss anything further, though, the alert on Burke’s watch warned him that he was coming up on the fifteen minute mark and would need to get to the mess to arrive before the newbies. With a smirk, the petty officer handed him his duty roster and said he’d see him at dinner, then took off in a light jog. 

Satisfied that he was getting the information gathering off to a good start, Jonas headed to the stairwell that would let him cut across the first level then come back up fairly close to where they’d left their gear. As he reached the edge of the stairwell down, where he could see his bag, but not reach IT due to a cut away of the upper deck, he noticed another of the sailors who’d been recruited into Kort’s training program quickly searching his gear. Jonas was quick to hide his expression, though, as he dropped down the ladder letting the rails at each side slide through his fingers like a fireman’s pole. 

To be honest, he’d expected this. On his return to the black site, Officer Kort hadn’t seemed willing to take the completion of his mission at face value, and had seemed increasingly intent on catching Jonas out, without any luck to date. There was nothing for them to find in his duffle, with exception of his uniforms, that they hadn’t provided and/or thoroughly searched. 

The distrust, circumstances being as they were, was only to be expected. What Jonas found almost disappointing was the fact that his instructors, Officer Kort included, seemed to be forgetting the content of their own brutal instruction, losing their composure, allowing him to see their own blatant distrust, and challenging him with ‘loyalty’ tests that were so blatant and predictable that he easily anticipated the responses the wanted to see. At first, he’d assumed that their blatant distrust and obvious challenges were merely distractions for more covert actions and searches that he wouldn’t know of until too late, but after weeks under their supervision and suspicion, Jonas was released to return back to his unit and cover still in possession of the two SD cards - after using the very methods they’d taught him to avoid discovery... apparently even their own discovery. 

It had been a risk, of course, possibly even one not worth taking, but after his detour to Innsbruck, he had spent the hours waiting for travel orders running through alternatives to store and retrieve the cards given a variety of travel options and potential assignments, and quickly discarded every other alternative as they all added increased risk of later discovery in circumstances outside of Jonas’s awareness or control. At least by keeping the SD chips on his person, they would be immediately accessible when Jonas was ready when he start investigating their content and his trainers’ intent. 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t take their increased monitoring, searches, and suspicion of him as anything more than the fact that they were CIA… and he was, in fact, concealing something, and more to the point, if he turned up the answers that he suspected he was going to turn up - they would be quite justified in worrying about their own safety. While Jonas would never betray his country, if he found that his handlers were actively working against the country’s interests… he was duty-bound to put the skills they’d helped him develop to the task of ending their operation and everyone involved in it. It just remained to find the answer to that question. Drawn by that thought, another passage of a song that had been haunting him lately came to his lips as he stepped off the later at the first level and turned leeward toward the exit that would put him closest to his duffle. 

> So give me an answer  
>  A place and a time  
>  A way to advance  
>  A cosmic sign
> 
> And I'll show you  
>  My point of view  
>    
>  Oh, yeah  
>  Yeah, I'll show you

ブレンキン

_September 26, 2009, Tru Tone, New Orleans, LA._

Finally pulling into the well-hidden customer parking-lot of the Tru Tone, Tony gladly cut the rental’s engine and lights propped his forearms across the steering wheel and dropped his forehead into the v of his wrists. He didn’t bother to check his watch for the time. Even before Siri decided that he was going to take the scenic route between Mayport and New Orleans, he’d expected to hit NOLA somewhere after 1:30… or 0130 military time (AKA too-damn-early to wake up a senior officer, much less one he respected)... and then Siri had decided to have her fun. 

Knowing his chances of finding a billet in any hotel that didn’t warrant a visit to a clinic afterwards, Tony had finally just decided that his best option would be to pull into the Tru Tone’s parking and catch Pride on the way into the field office - not realizing that the guru behind his maps app hadn’t consulted the 'locals' before ‘mapping’ New Orleans and had neglected the labyrinth of back streets that reached the buildings fronting the well-known and documented ‘main roads’. As a result, he’d be lucky to have time for even a half hour nap before Pride was heading in. 

True to his luck, thinking of the possibility seemed to invoke it - as Tony had barely closed his eyes before a soft tapping against the driver’s side window echoed through the car. Only the fact that Pride was a close friend of Gibbs and someone Tony respected as much as his mentor kept Tony from verbalizing his frustrated curse. 

“Son,” Dwayne drawled sympathetically as he seemed to read Tony’s physical and mental state in a glance, “Best come in, I don’t have coffee on yet, and I’m not sure you should have any even if I did. Do have a batch of Sweet, Sweet Darlene’s banana beignets that, if memory serves, you proposed to her over.” 

“Sounds good.” Tony croaked, dryly. It had probably been a bad idea to pass up the chance to get water when he’d fueled up. 

“Come on, then,” Pride was crouching beside him, somehow on the inside of the car door he hadn’t remembered opening, and reaching across to unbuckle him. 

“I’m fine, I can get it.” Tony offered trying to reach down before the older man, which was made somewhat harder to do with his head still pinning his wrists. 

“No, Son. I don’t think you can.” Pride drawled, sounding amused and something else. 

“Don’t need to call me 'son'. I’m okay.” Tony protested the endearment, even though he kind of liked it. Gibbs had never called him son. Even Senior hadn’t. He’d talk about him as his son usually in a disbelieving or disappointed tone as if he couldn’t believe how he'd been stuck with Tony as a son, but he’d never used it speaking to Tony. 

“Well, if I thought you were any kind of shape to remember it, I might of used your name,” Pride retorted, “but we can talk on it tomorrow. Right now, let’s see if we can get you turned out. Pull your hands … good, that’s good… now get those feet out … that’s right. Here. “ 

Before he knew it, Tony was standing up pressed into the car as Pride reached in past him to retrieve his keys and the courier bag, then pulled against the older man as the senior agent locked and shut the door. Although it was almost embarrassing to have the older man steadying his steps as he walked, Tony didn’t have the energy left to protest it so let himself be led into the Tru Tone and up the stairs. Once inside the upstairs apartment, Pride got Tony settled on a couch while he went off to make up the spare bed for Tony. 

With his head thrown back against the couch, his eyes closed, and no one expecting anything from him for at least a few minutes, Tony relaxed for the first time since he’d overheard the two leads at Mayport so-very-not subtly discussing the one year anniversary of Director Sheppard’s death and noticed the very close attention they were paying to his reaction. It wasn’t the only reason he’d chosen to leave Mayport early, when the communications office let him know that they had the ‘packet’ to be delivered to the NOLA field office completed earlier than expected; t saved him the hassle of finding a room near the base as well. 

Still, it was nice to relax with the faint familiar scents and sounds of New Orleans floating through the window. The fragrances of the various spices being added to dishes being started for the day. The soft floating laughter and greetings of business owners opening up. The sound of a musician or two starting to tune their instrument to practice. Not to far away, a guitarist was warming up with a twelve bar blues chord progression that reminded Tony so much of the song that had remained as fixed as a mantra in his thoughts that he didn’t even think about it when he began to match the lyrics to the chord progression. 

> I haven't been happy  
>  In such a long time  
>  Cloudy and grey skies  
>  Instead of sunshine  
>  I guess that's how  
>  I'm looking now
> 
> So pale  
>  Like I'm in disguise
> 
> I'm thoughtful and...  
>  I'm gloomy and...  
>  I'm bitter and blue  
>  Thoughtful and...  
>  Gloomy and...  
>  Bitter and blue  
>  If [life's so] precious then [why's] it so cheap? 

Tony was so deeply submerged into the song, his own weariness, and the small amount of relaxation afforded by the familiar environment, his closed eyes, and the overstuffed couch that he didn’t notice when Pride stopped in the hall, his arms full of sheets, to listen - his frown growing with every word Tony sang. 

> I haven't been happy  
>  In such a long time  
>  Cloudy and grey skies  
>  Instead of sunshine  
>  I guess that's how  
>  I'm looking now
> 
> So pale  
>  Like I'm in disguise
> 
> I'm thoughtful and...  
>  Gloomy and...  
>  Bitter and blue  
>  Thoughtful and...  
>  Gloomy and...  
>  Bitter and blue  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a small side note: In this fic, I am treating the info given to the MCRT by Trent Kort as coming from a very unreliable narrator. It's already a part of canon that he was running an off shoot of the Operation Frankenstein program for profit, and in the story arc leading to Ziva's presumed death, we learn of additional crimes that be laid at Kort's doorstep well before that. 
> 
> That's not to say that Jonas won't still kill the men that he did in canon, only that there's more than one telling to every story, and a different presentation of the same details could have shown them in a more justified light... and that the port to port killer's motivation could have been about more than revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: (AKA Leon Vance and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day)

ブレンキン

_September 28, 2009, NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC._

“Director Vance,” Cynthia greeted him as he passed to his door. 

“Ms. Sumner.” Leon returned her greeting with a nod. 

He had barely settled his attache case on the desk and pulled out his chair before his staff assistant had followed him in and was presenting his agenda. 

“Sir. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I wasn’t able to reach you this morning to explain several schedule changes. The Sec Nav’s staff assistant called this morning to reschedule your 10:30 conference call to a personal meeting in his office at that time. I’ve rescheduled your leading and following appointments and conference calls to allow for travel time. Dr. Mallard and his assistant have requested an appointment with you first thing this morning. SSA Pride also called this morning requesting a phone conference; he specified that the subject is not classified but is private, so he would prefer a call from your office instead of being added to this morning’s MTAC Queue. Homeland Security Director Morrow has similarly requested a private call from you follow your meeting with the Sec Nav.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Leon suppressed a brief wish that he had called out to spend the morning with Jackie, who had been more than a little displeased with him for cancelling the weekend trip to her sister’s in order to supervise the MCRT’s capture of Saleem Ulman turned rescue of Ziva David. Of course, with that forewarning, he should have expected that the day wasn’t promising. 

The recovery of David, in and of itself, should have been warning enough that the Sec Nav, who wasn’t particularly pleased with Leon’s continued professional relationship with Eli David, especially after the RivKin-David affair would want to ‘discuss the matter stringently’. If Ziva, who’d already been presumed dead, were actually still an NCIS agent - even in the liaison role, it would have been much easier to justify the execution of Ulman, who was to have been captured by Agent Callen and sent to Gitmo for interrogation. No doubt, the Sec Nav was planning on a very intense ‘discussion’ on that matter as David’s status was still very much up in the air. Between her complicity in Rivkin’s execution of the supposed sleeper cell members before they could be questioned, the execution of the ICE agent, the nearly successful attempt on Agent Callen’s life when he discovered Rivkin at her apartment, as well as incriminating evidence on her personal computer - there were many who wanted to see her take Ulman’s cell in Gitmo. The only thing keeping her out of the detention center was her father’s current favored position in the Israeli government and the Sec Nav’s desire to limit the public’s knowledge of his endorsement of the late Director Sheppard (and her placement of a foriegn intelligence agent on a US criminal investigation unit that had little feasible need to interact with Israeli intelligence), at least prior to the events manufactured at Eli’s orders. 

“Did Dr. Mallard say what he wished to meet me about?” 

“No, Sir. Merely that his assistant brought a matter of concern to his attention.” 

“Well, that certainly isn’t vague.” 

“I’m sorry, Sir. I did try to get more details from him, but Dr. Mallard insisted that he is required to uphold patient confidentiality.” 

Well, that narrowed the field down quite a bit; although, he wasn’t certain that fact made the pending discussion or follow up to the discussion any easier. As far as Leon was aware, Gibbs was the only Agent who used Dr. Mallard as a personal physician… and the only permissible breach of patient confidentiality that Leon was aware of would be to report a potential condition that could cause the agent to endanger himself or others in the field. If the conversation went how he expected it to, with Leon forced to bench Gibbs until such whatever medical issue the doctors believed they were seeing was resolved, it was certain to add fuel to Gibbs’ already hot temper. 

“Very well. Ask Dr. Mallard to come up and confirm with Agent Pride that I will be available to speak with him until 9:00.” 

ブレンキン

_September 28, 2009, NCIS Regional Headquarters, New Orleans, LA._

"Dwayne…" Leon answered, picking up on the first ring. His voice and tone warm and familiar with the echoes of their long held friendship. 

As much as he wanted to return that familiarity. Pride knew it was more important to make sure that Leon was really listening. With that in mind, he cooled his tone, returning Leon's greeting with cold formality. 

"Director Vance."

"Agent Pride, I understand you wanted to speak with me regarding a personal matter. May I inquire if this is in regard to Agent Gibbs?"

"Only tangentially. To be honest, Director, I’m trying to figure out what to say to you because I honestly never expected something like this, from you, of all people."

"And, just what is the ‘this’ you are referring to?"

"Tell me, Director, when was the last time you spoke to Special Agent DiNozzo?"

"Why are you asking?" Vance’s tone was too mildly curious for Pride’s taste, suggesting that his friend and superior’s mistake in judgement had been accompanied by blatant neglect. 

"Why aren’t you able to answer?" Pride retorted, trying to keep a hold of his temper. 

"Look, Pride, unlike you, I supervise the activities of every office and directly or indirectly every agent NCIS under my command." The director's uncharacteristically stiff response told Pride that his question got through his director-ial demeanor to at least prick his friend's ego. 

"Or you use to," Pride taunted, "You’ve let one slip, and to my thinkin’ that’s worse than what I’d first thought. "

"And, just what did you think I was doing, and what do you think I’m currently doing, that’s worse?" Vance demanded, his tone sounding both piqued and slightly wounded, clearly not expecting censure from someone he’d maintained a good working relationship for more than a decade. 

~~~ Good, he’s listening.~~~ Pride thought with a nod. While Dwayne would have liked to believe that Leon was listening simply as the Director, he was more than aware that it was more than likely due to their long friendship and that if anyone else had tried, say someone like Jethro, Leon would have dug his heels in and stayed the course - hell or high water. 

"What I thought you were doing was running a ‘what did you call it?’... a ‘rabbit run’ op on DiNozzo to give him the opportunity to prove himself to you? Despite everything you had to say about the old man when he ran the same stunt on you? … What you’re actually doing? Honest to God, Leon, I don’t even know. I know that the assignment fell on the heels of Sheppard’s death, but I read the reports, and regardless of what anyone might like to think, you and I know that DiNozzo was in the right."

"And, I take it, you don’t think that DiNozzo should have to prove himself, to myself and the rest of the agency, after the Director died when he was on protection duty." Vance summarized, wearily. While, in theory, I agree: DiNozzo had been following orders, and was justified in doing so; in reality, the man had needed to step out from Gibbs’ shadow, and for his first operation in stepping out from his mentor’s shadow to end so disastrously, Pride ... Regardless of what you think of the man and his talents, it practically set him back to the beginning. No one would have blinked if I’d demoted or even fired him. He needed and still needs to prove himself, whether it seems fair or not.

"Prove himself, Leon? My first read through of the assignments he’s been put on this past year had me thinkin’ you were planning a ‘company-retirement’ for him." Dwayne accused, pulling no punches and hoping the reference to the CIA’s disgraceful record of eliminating agents whom the agency deemed knew too much to be allowed to retire - hit just that little bit below the belt. 

From Vance’s vexed tone when he answered, the accusation had hit home, "Agent Pride, you’re coming very close to crossing the line between acceptable feedback and insubordination. Even given years of friendship."

"That’s part of the issue for me, Leon. Because of our years of friendship, I’ve been wanting to give you the benefit of the doubt, and I assumed that you were doing - at least - as much as Old Cresswick had when you were on your ‘run’. But from everything I’ve seen, I just don’t know Leon."

"At least as much as Director Cresswick? Just what exactly do you think that Cresswick did for me, Agent Pride?"

"You forgetting I was there, Leon? Working out of the same office? Or that for a good while, he thought of me as his 'golden boy' sat right outside his office - in 'Pride of Place'? Bigoted jackass or not, every call and every slur he threw at you, aside, I got to hear it. I got to hear it when he called and reviewed every single one of the cases you’d worked; I'd hear him tell you what you did wrong, and sometimes when he even unbent enough, I'd hear him tell you what you did right. Linda and I went out to dinner with you and Jackie almost every time he put you on a case that brought you back into town, and I took you out for drinks, to celebrate, when he called you back in after 6 months. So tell me Leon, when was the last time you talked to DiNozzo? Or, if not that, tell me the last time you put him on a case that brought him back into DC, not just the states. Or if that’s too hard to remember, Leon, how about telling me why you’ve let DiNozzo’s ‘run’ go twice as long as yours and made no effort at all to quell the story everyone seems to believe that you’re punishing him for Sheppard’s death? Because that’s the message you’re putting across, and if you don’t believe that, look at the assignments he’s been put on and the amount of support he’s been given to do them. Whether it’s what you intended to imply or not, that’s the message they’ve taken from it."

Vance was silent for several minutes, before answering quietly, "I will take that under advisement." Which, was really about all that Dwayne expected from the director. Sometimes he suspected that the reason Leon and Gibbs butted heads so much was that they were so alike. 

"I hope you do;" He warned, "because, Leon, if something doesn’t change, you’re going to lose him. Hell, he shouldn’t be in the field now, but if he goes back out… best case scenario, if you don’t change things, is that he up and walks away. He’s too stubborn by half, though, and has a skewed view of self-preservation to begin with. As much as I wish to God he’d tell you what you can do with his assignment, that’s not how I see this ending… and that would be a damn waste… worse than any of the stunts Sheppard tried to pull."

"I said, I’d look into it, Pride." Vance retorted, clearly done with the conversation. 

Pride wasn’t quite done yet, though, "That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have to look into it. You’re better than this, Leon, or at least you used to be."

"Goodbye, Agent Pride." Vance snapped, effectively ordering Dwayne to drop the subject. 

"Goodbye, Director. Just a small note, Sir, I'll be delaying the transfer of the communication packet from here to the special operations unit until I deem the assigned courier to have rested enough that he can safely travel." Dwayne threw in, not mentioning DiNozzo directly, but knowing the director would get the message. 

"Noted." Vance answered, his teeth almost audibly grinding. 

ブレンキン

_September 28, 2009, NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC._

Leon hung up the phone with a grimace. This was the last thing he needed. Admittedly, Dwayne had made a few valid points. Leon had let some matters slide, in the aftermath of Sheppard’s death, and the evidence discovered of her convoluted plots (including communiques found in Sheppard’s desk, between her and Eli David, in which the Director had committed actions tantamount to treason - providing Eli and his daughter with profiles of each MCRT team member, prior to Agent Todd’s assasination; conspiring - again prior to Todd’s death - to fill the ‘evacuated position’ with an agent of Eli’s choosing, later identified as his daughter; and agreeing to give the mossad agent sufficient access to cull ‘useful’ information from NCIS databases to share with Mossad in exchange for information on La Grenouille). He'd had been almost immediately ‘caught up’ in the operation to reveal the (other) mole within the NCIS, which had taken far longer than Leon had anticipated, and had dove-tailed into other time-critical operations, including the operation to identify sleeper cells in LA and Hawaii… well, Leon had … lost track of the particulars of DiNozzo’s day-to-day assignments, trusting the ADs and SAICs at the various branch offices that DiNozzo traveled between to set reasonable assignments. 

That it had gone on so long… and, yes, he realized now, that it had been a full year. Well, in truth, he hadn’t intended for DiNozzo’s assignment to continue past the standard six-month Agent Afloat assignment, but a 12-month assignment wasn’t unheard of - provided sufficient leave was authorized. From what, Dwayne had implied, though, Leon had a strong suspicion that a good number of the assignments hadn’t met ideal conditions and the various ADs and SAICs had not provided adequate support, and Leon should have been following up better.

It was a definite burr to realize that Dwayne had been right about one thing. As much as he’d detested Director Cresswick, the bigot had followed up with him after every assignment he’d worked - trying to tear apart every mistake Leon had made, certainly, but on more than one occasion giving grudging notes of approval that he’d probably had to down a couple of scotch’s before he could spit them out. Still, he’d been consistent, and Leon had never doubted, not really, that if there’d been trouble on any of his assignments, that the man would recall him or send back up. Cresswick didn’t want him in the job, but the man had possessed enough of a sense of honor that he wouldn’t blatantly betray him. He wouldn’t have lost sleep if Leon was killed in the line of duty, but he wouldn’t have done anything to precipitate it.

Leon hadn’t thought of it as a comfort at the time, but years supervising agents had reinforced the point he knew Dwayne had been trying to make: regardless of their assignments, agents - and particularly those in extremely dangerous assignments - needed consistency from their supervisors and handlers, which if Dwayne was right, may have been lacking for Agent DiNozzo over the past year. 

"Ms. Sumner?" Leon asked, as he depressed the intercom’s ‘call button’. 

"Yes, Sir?"

"Get the contact number for Agent DiNozzo’s designated hr coordinator, and let me know when Dr. Mallard arrives."

"Dr. Mallard and Mr. Palmer are here, Sir. I had asked them to wait until your phone phone call was finished."

"Send them in, then." Leon ordered with a sigh, having a feeling that he was about to have even more ‘added to his plate’. 

"Of course, Sir. Gentlemen, the Director will..." Her comment went silent as she closed the intercom from her side. 

Leon’s decided that his initial assumption - that Dr. Mallard - wished to discuss a personal medical issue of Gibbs’ immediately died as the medical examiner’s assistant walked into the room - stiff with what Leon suspected was intense anger, though he wasn’t certain as it was a state he’d never seen the young man exhibiting. Perhaps, it was Palmer with the medical issue. 

"Gentlemen, Ms. Sumner mentioned that you wish to discuss a matter of some concern. … " He prompted. "A matter of patient confidentiality, I believe she said, by which I presume means you’re referring to Gibbs or a member of his team?"

Mr. Palmer’s derisive snort startled Leon. Usually the man was overly polite and deferential, but there seemed to be nothing of his common manner in the young assistant’s bearing today. 

"Mr. Palmer," Dr. Mallard chastised lightly. "A combative attitude will not facilitate matters in the least."

Surprisingly, Palmer crossed his arms, his expression clearly defiant and thoroughly rejecting the chastisement. 

"Is there a problem, here, Gentlemen?"

"Not precisely," Dr. Mallard attempted to offer even as he was overridden by the young assistant’s "Yes!" which was quite surprising - in and of itself - as the young assistant was usually scrupulously polite to his mentor and all of Dr. Mallard’s reviews of Palmer had noted that the young man’s over courtesy was one of the few weaknesses he believed the young man had as it would set him up to be ‘overly-pressured’ (the Doctor’s kinder term for bullying) by agents like Gibbs and Tenner, who were always prone to demand fast responses over careful conclusions. 

"It sounds as if there is, Dr. Mallard," Leon rebutted kindly, suspecting that older man had probably already put up with quite a bit from the young man before requesting the appointment. "While I usually allow supervisors to address matters internally, unless they interfere with a department’s operations, if there is something I can do to assist with resolving whatever’s causing your conflict, I would like to do so." He commented with complete honesty. In truth the medical examiner’s section had consistently maintained the smoothest operations in the building, requiring little oversight beyond signatures on budget requisitions and even there, every requisition that he had reviewed was always well within the expected budget and self-explanatory down to the cent. 

"You could stop being an ass to Tony." Mr. Palmer snapped. 

"Mr. Palmer. You will cease this attitude right now and return to the morgue immediately. We will address this as soon as I return." Dr. Mallard demanded, bolting to his feet and gesturing his assistant out before Leon had gotten over his shock at the young man’s comment. 

"Whatever you say, Dr. Mallard." Palmer answered with unexpected politeness, before stalking out of the office. 

"Director Vance, I take full responsibility for Mr. Palmer’s words and actions. I assure you that I will discuss this matter thoroughly and sternly with the young man, and submit the appropriate documentation to human resources. I can only offer my deepest apologies for the his slight and acknowledge that he, himself, suggested that it would not be a good idea for him to attend this meeting. He is a close friend of Tony’s, you see, and is very protective of his friends, despite his normally congenial manner."

"I see." Leon sighed, trying to suppress his irritation at the young man’s insubordination. Given Dwayne’s call, perhaps he should have expected the doctor to have something to say regarding Agent DiNozzo’s current situation. When he reassigned DiNozzo, he was going to need to impress on the man that stirring up adversity in other departments was a reckless way to try to get himself recalled. While he hadn't taken the opportunity to build up a strong working relationship with the man, from what he remembered of DiNozzo’s records, he would have thought DiNozzo would have acted more professionally than this. 

"It seems if a discussion with Agent DiNozzo is overdue. " Leon announced, "Don’t worry, I will be sure to remonstrate DiNozzo for speaking out of turn with Mr. Palmer or anyone else."

"Good Lord, Director! I sincerely hope you do no such thing. Young Anthony is the last one to speak out of turn, and I assure you he has said nothing inflammatory or provoking to stir up Young Jimmy. In fact, if Jimmy were not the persistent young man that he is, it is entirely possible that we would have all overlooked Young Anthony’s blithe deflections and not become aware of a very real concern before it was too late."

"I don’t understand." Dwayne had implied that DiNozzo shouldn’t be out in the field, but Leon - knowing how different Pride’s and Gibbs’ management styles were - had assumed that Dwayne was simply referring to DiNozzo being overtired - by his standards. Not necessarily NCIS standards as a hole. 

"Well, we really did not quite explain the cause for our concern for Young Anthony, which If I may, as well as providing some background, may help. "

"Certainly."

"Well, you’re aware of course, that after Anthony survived the plague, we have..."

"Wait! What?!?" Leon cut the doctor off, in shock. 

"You were not aware?" Dr. Mallard quickly surmised. "It is a matter of record in Young Anthony’s file."

"It was not in the ‘Director’s version’ of DiNozzo’s file that I gained access to when I replaced Director Sheppard." Leon swore with a grimace. "In fact, now that you mention it. I don’t remember any medical notations included in his file."

"Oh, Dear. Well, that does explain matters somewhat. I had thought it quite troubling that Anthony would be sent to locations with … lesser medical systems, having an easily compromised immune system. However, everything was quite troubling at the time, between Jennifer’s death, the discovery of her and Ziva’s misbehavior, then poor Agent Langer and young Miss Lee and her sister. But it does clarify matters slightly and will certainly improve Mr. Palmer’s opinion, significantly; although, I suspect the less said about that the better. "

"Agreed." He knew his tone was curt, but given this new development, Leon had to admit that he had a better understanding of Dwayne and Mr. Palmer’s attitudes. 

"Indeed, perhaps I should start there, then. Just before Director Sheppard put in place, a distraught, dying, and sadly-misguided mother sought to get justice for what was then believed to be her daughter’s reported rape, by the coercion of sending an envelope tainted by a biologically-engineered strain of yersenia pestes through the mail. Due to her careful preparation of the envelope, the strain was quite active when Anthony opened and blew into the envelope causing the powdered media she used to sustain the bacteria to blow back into young Anthony’s face. While the bacteria had been genetically engineered to stop replicating after 32 hours and lose its infectious capacity, it had quite ravaged Anthony’s pulmonary system, and the poor boy was showing signs of cyanosis - with the infection starving his body of oxygen. The poor lad was quite literally drowning without being submerged. Both Caitlyn and I had quite thought that it was the end for Anthony; he was so weakened and -worse- he, himself, seemed to believe that he was dying, which as you are probably aware, can often mean the difference between life and death. Thankfully, Jethro was quite of a different opinion and convinced Anthony to fight, and fight, young Anthony did. All the way to full field-fitness. Despite that, though, Anthony’s lungs were permanently damaged and as a result he is quite susceptible to respiratory infections. As you can imagine, since that time, we’ve kept a weather eye out for Tony’s health, or rather, I had until this past year. When Tony was reassigned, I’m afraid that I made assumptions regarding his posting that sadly have proven untrue, and I believe Young Jimmy is the only one to notice this. "

"And those assumptions were?" Leon questioned with a grimace. 

"Well, first, that his health situation was being monitored; then, that Anthony would himself raise an alert if his physical well-being seemed compromised. But neither seem to be the case. Even, Mr. Palmer was not entirely certain that there was a problem. He was concerned, of course, that Anthony was not availing himself of sufficient leave and down time, but as that was a quite common trait for Anthony when he staffed this office, I am afraid that I did not take Jimmy's concern quite as seriously as I should have. Then, there is the matter of his weight loss. Now, initially, both Jimmy and I brushed that off as well. Anthony had mentioned having a slight stomach upset from sampling the delights of the locals he’s visited, so I believed it was only to be expected. However, over the last year, during occasional texts that have gone back and forth, between Anthony and Jimmy, Anthony’s referred to losing weight, which in and of itself, is not concerning, especially as the references were to small amounts of weight being lost. In one of Anthony’s responses, though, he referred to losing ‘another 5 lbs’, which pricked Jimmy’s concern and prompted him to look back through the previous months’ texts… to find several mentions. Now, Anthony was not a particularly slight man prior to his assignment, and incremental weight loss and gain naturally occur in the amounts Anthony had mentioned; however, in all of his messages, Anthony only mentioned losing weight, not gaining weight. Well, spurred on by what he discovered, Jimmy was quite insistent that... " Dr. Mallard trailed off as Cynthia stepped into the room, wearing an apologetic expression. 

"I am sorry to interrupt, Sir, but you had wanted to be informed when the car arrived for your appointment with the Sec. Nav."

"Thank you, Ms. Sumner. Dr. Mallard, I’m afraid that I do have to go, but if you could spare some time after … Actually, Ms. Sumner, can you please keep Dr. Mallard updated on my schedule today, and let him know when I’ll be returning."

"Certainly, Sir." Cynthia agreed at the same time that Dr. Mallard answered, "I quite understand my boy and will be happy to stay after to speak with you. Thank you."

"Thank you, Dr. Mallard. Ms. Sumner." Leon acknowledged their remarks as he stood up and collected his attache case. 

Following them out the door, Leon was almost past his Cynthia’s desk, when she called him back. 

"Sir, the contact information you asked me for, before Dr. Mallard’s meeting?"

"Yes?" he paused, reaching out for a contact card. 

"Sir, I’m afraid that Agent DiNozzo currently has no designated hr coordinator"

"What? How was he not assigned a coordinator?"

"It appears to be an oversight, Sir. When agents were regularly assigned to courier routes, they were assigned to a single designated hr coordinator who handled matters for all couries, but when it fell out of practice and the coordinator, Edward Davis, retired, he wasn’t replaced. In recent years, when a courier was needed, the packet was either handed off to Navy intelligence or - in the rare event an available agent was transferring to the destination, or a nearby destination, he or she would be given the packet, and then on completion of delivery, would be assigned an hr rep at his or her destination base. As Agent DiNozzo has not, as of yet, been assigned a destination base..." She trailed off, as he nodded; there was no need to anything further. 

_September 28, 2009, Office of the Secretary of the Navy, 1000 Navy Pentagon, Washington, DC._

Leon had run through his notes repeatedly, during the drive over from the Navy Yard to the Pentagon, until he was certain that he had a reasonable, thorough, sound, and sufficiently detailed answer to any question the Sec Nav might ask about how the MCRT’s operation to capture Saleem Ulman turned into an assassination that resulted in the rescue of Ziva David. By the time that the Sec Nav’s staff assistant was ushering him through the door to the Sec Nav’s office, he was prepared to answer any question the Sec Nav could come up with … except the one he asked: 

"Leon, would you care to explain to me why I am fielding calls from the MI-6 director, an … " the Secretary paused to glance down at a note before continuing, "Olivia Paddington Mansfield, regarding the lack of adequate support for an agent who was negligently directed into one of their recent operations?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two small notes here:
> 
> First, don't feel too sorry for Leon, despite his bad day. He's still manipulative, and he's not quite done being manipulative, yet. But he is human, and fallable as well, so while he's responsible for Tony's tough year, he wasn't being consciously, intentionally neglectful.
> 
> Second, to any Michelle and Amanda Lee sympathizers, I'm sorry. I'm afraid that when I plotted this - not only was the timeline of that investigation and revelation sped up by the break up of the 'true' team (possibly due some action made by their faulty replacements) and the discovery of Sheppard's mischief by those reviewing her records and communiques, which left Ziva off the team permanently - but the team - without Tony and Ziva to go to that weird-wired room and work together to save Amanda from the electrocuting bed - either just don't make it in time, or don't notice the booby trap, or otherwise just didn't get it done ... and neither sister survives. Oh, and - at least in my imagination - Jimmy's been going through a rough patch because of it, wondering if he could have done something to protect them if he hadn't pushed Michelle away (rightfully coming to the conclusion she'd been using him, just not realizing the why of it until too late). Not that Tony knows about it, as neither he nor Jimmy have wanted to talk about what was bothering them personally, despite pushing the other to talk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t want to spoil anything, but I think there are a couple of terms that it might help to have translated before reading:   
> 
> 
>     Soup Sandwich: "Used to describe an individual, object, situation, or mission that has gone horribly wrong. The thrust of the term's meaning derives from the fact that it is incredibly difficult, some would say impossible, to make a sandwich out of soup."
>     Grid Squares: "A non-existent item recruits are typically told to go find."
>     KIA: Killed in Action.
>     From _https://www.military.com/join-armed-forces/military-terms-and-jargon.html_
>     PFM: “Pure ****ing Magic: used "when explaining something the asker might not understand."
>     _https://www.military.com/join-armed-forces/glossary-of-military-acronyms.html_
>     Crossed off: Killed (From _American Assassin_ , I think.)

Chapter Songs and Lyrics: [ Excerpt from “Breathe” by Pink Floyd ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1i8RoAQW-8)

ブレンキン

_November 3, 2009 11:00 AM (UTC+4:30), Ghor Tapa, Northern Kunduz province, Afghanistan._

" 11," Tony signed, being extremely careful to keep his hands and said hand signals below the line of the terrace wall as he continued, "7 armed, 2 eating, 2 sleeping. On low guard."

The Afghan soldier nodded his acknowledgement and gestured for Tony to retreat. Although Tony wasn’t entirely comfortable leaving behind the unit he’d lead to the two level townhouse, he was well aware that his sole role in the operation was to lead the Afghans to the safehouse of one of the leaders of the insurgent cells. Although the occupying forces estimated that there were roughly 200 insurgents holding the town under siege, both the allied forces and Afghan militias were dedicated on taking down this particular cell as their attacks had been senselessly brutal, even by terrorists standards and the leader had seemed to have a preference of striking sites where young children were educated or cared for. 

It was only by happenstance that Tony was even acting as their guide. He had been delivering a secure communication package to the International troops mobile headquarters when he’d recognized a man in a surveillance photo, whom he’d seen en route. The only reason that they’d even let him get close enough to count their targets had been due to either his luck or some unconscious effect of Gibbs near-sniper training that had guided Tony in picking out the approach with the best vantage point when they neared the occupied building. While some of the soldiers had a clear view of some of the insurgents, he’d seemed to be the only one with a clear view of the whole group. 

A jeep was already waiting for him as he reached the road on the other side of the building they’d been watching from. 

"Saat cheghadr ast?" He questioned, not certain whether he’d remembered to change the time on his watch after the last flight.

"It is eleven o’clock." The soldier offered, in clear, barely accented English, with an amused smile. "You do not need to attempt Farsi."

"My pronunciation’s that bad?" Tony questioned, offering an intentionally sheepish smile. 

"Your accent is…. unique." The soldier agreed with gentle humor. 

"Aya mi tavanam ba shoma tamrin konam?" Tony questioned. 

"Yes, we can practice." The soldier laughed, "At least as far as the airport."

ブレンキン

_November 3, 2009 7:30 AM (UTC-6:00) NCIS Regional Headquarters, New Orleans, LA._

"How’s it going, Tony?" Dwayne questioned with a smile. 

"It went well. Enayat gave me an update before putting me on the plane." Tony responded. "They took down the whole cell; with only one casualty on the team, but to be honest, given the violence the cell was prone to, I’d expected more."

"Sometimes we get lucky. That was a good catch by the way; Commander Mehdi requested that his compliments be passed along."

"That’s nice of him." Tony responded blandly. In all honesty, while the Commander had seemed to be a decent enough leader, Tony’d had the impression that the man was almost too rigidly-moral to lead teams in the field. He had no doubt he would have admired the man’s morals, if they’d sat down and discussed their personal beliefs, but he was sure that eventually those morals and the practicality of leading in-field teams were bound to come into conflict. 

"Yes, well. I believe he was being sincere."

"I have no doubt." Tony agreed. Mehdi had given the air of being too honor-bound to say anything he didn’t mean. It was probably a good thing the man had chosen the military to exert his influence through. He’d have had a ‘shit’ career in politics. 

"So, where am I headed next?"

"The Dolphin Tavern, Penzance, England."

"And what’s in Penzance?"

"Great Steak and Ale pie, a fair apple crumble, and a decent off-tap, local-brew." Dwayne answered glibly, just waiting for Tony to balk. 

"And?"

"Three days down-time, minimum." Dwayne ordered. 

"Three days?"

"Three days, minimum." Dwayne offered, with a subtle threat of possibly more. When he’d called Leon months back, he hadn’t anticipated the possibility that he’d find himself assigned as Tony’s handler. The logical choice, in his opinion, would have been to reassign Tony, if not back to DC, then at least to a stateside unit where his investigatory skills could be put to use. 

Unfortunately, the Sec Nav had deemed otherwise, likely deciding that pulling Tony from his assignment - after receiving somewhat negative feedback from his counterpart in MI-6 - would have been akin to admitting their mistake, which - historically - the Secretary rarely seemed prepared to do. Their initial resolution, switching what should have been Leon’s duties - monitoring Tony - to Hetty Lang’s unit (where Tony had already been headed back when Dwayne called Leon) had been, in the kindest terms possible, a complete and utter trainwreck. 

No one, including Hetty - it seemed - had taken into account her dissatisfaction with losing Callen to Gibbs’ team in DC, replacing the combination of skills formerly performed by Tony and Ziva in combination with her perceived loss of her former mentee. While Jethro had mentored Jennifer Sheppard as an NCIS investigator, most had forgotten that Hetty had taken the, then, young future-agent/Director under her wing, taking her back to LA, shortly after Colonel Sheppard’s death - and years later, guiding her into FLETC, with an eye toward NCIS. While superficially, Lang had seemed to accept that Tony had acted appropriately in following Sheppard’s orders, her decisions throughout October had given strong indications otherwise. By the 18th, Leon - who’d finally been reviewing Tony’s assignments - was looking for a replacement handler, with Dwayne as a convenient and willing first choice. 

After insisting on a week’s down time, which he’d had to fight Tony to take more than he' had to fight Leon to give, Dwayne had supervised a balking Tony through two short supply-drops and a courier run to the International Forces Mobile Headquarters, which Tony was returning from that moment. Now that things seemed to have settled slightly, Dwayne intended to finally start setting a proper leave regime for Tony, who’d grown out of familiarity with direct or close supervision, but wasn’t entirely certain that Tony wouldn’t manage to find a ‘side trip’ along the way ' like he had spotting the 'right hand man' of insurgent cell simply driving through the town. 

"Will do, Boss." Tony agreed, a little too flippantly, as if he’d forgotten that Dwayne would realize that - regardless of how long he’d been off the team - there was really only one Agent Tony would call ‘Boss’. At least, for now. 

"Get some rest, Tony." He ordered softly, after several seconds of silence. Dwayne wasn’t entirely certain he believed the easy agreement, but he’d take what he could get. 

"Okay, Pride."

~~~That sounded a bit better, at least.~~~

ブレンキン

_November 3, 2009, 12:45 PM (UTC+4:30) Flight 2935, Med Air, Kunduz, Afghanistan to Mazar-i-Sharif International Airport, Balkh Province, Afghanistan._

Tony slipped his phone back into his pocket, and rested his head against the back of his seat, taking a deep breath. He liked Agent Pride well enough, and honestly, wouldn’t have minded having Pride as his SSA or handler, if the assignment hadn’t come with the certain knowledge - made abundantly clear by Hetty - that the Director was only assigning him a handler because he’d apparently demonstrated that he wasn’t able to do the job without close supervision. A decision made after he’d showed up at Dwayne’s - having made the admittedly stupid decision to drive between offices when he was too tired - and subsequently, was in no shape, when he arrived to make any believable claim that he could have protected the packet he was delivering, if he’d been intercepted.

He didn’t blame Pride for reporting the screw up any more than he blamed Hetty for being the handler assigned to ‘kick his butt’ back in line, but it was more than a little embarrassing that they’d thought he wasn’t up to Hetty’s ‘tough love’ approach and needed a ‘soft touch’ like Pride. He couldn’t help but think that Gibbs would have given him the mother of all headslaps, both for the screw up and for earning the ‘probie’ treatment. That thought was almost a consolation, though. 

It might take a while, but he’d prove himself. He’d earned his way on Gibbs’ team after all. 

Pulling the small carry case for his earbuds out of his pocket, Tony opened the case and slipped the bluetooth earbuds into each ear. A light tap started the next up on his playlist, and Tony could almost laugh as the first line cautioned him to ‘Breath’. It was very much something he could imagine hearing Pride say. 

> Breathe, breathe in the air  
>  Don't be afraid to care …  
>  Look around, choose your own ground  
>  For long you live and high you fly  
> 

ブレンキン

_November 3, 2009 10:00 PM (UTC+4:30), USS Bainbridge, Officers Brow, Quarterdeck, Gulf of Aden_

"Request permission to come aboard, Sir?" Jonas asked Petty Officer Burke. 

"Permission granted," Burke returned, grinning down at Jonas, as he offered Jonas a hand to help him up the last rung, before looking beyond him to Seamen Apprentice Steven Bennet. 

"I don’t guess we’ll make you report to the aft brow." He laughed. "Better have ‘page 2’ handy, though." He jibed, referring back to the emergency data pages that first timers submitted on boarding the ship. 

Watching the apprentice stiffen beside him, out of the corner of his eye, Jonas grabbed the man’s wrist as it dropped toward his side-arm, and hissed, "Don’t be an idiot."

"No witnesses, remember?" The paranoid rookie snapped, turning suspicious eyes back on Jonas. 

"He’s not a witness, Idiot. He’s cover."

"Kort didn’t say anything a..." Kort’s lapdog protested. 

"About practically shouting his name in an unsecured area? No, I wouldn't think _he_ would have." Jonas challenged, calmly, although frankly, he was more than tempted to put a bullet in Kort’s lackey - annoyed by the man’s continued amateurish attempts to catch him out. Why Kort had even let Bennett out of training when he was clearly not fully-trained spoke loudly of his 'mentor's' continued suspicion (and culpability)… even while it effectively prevented Jonas from making any moves to acquire a device to read the SD chips, which he still kept on his person at all times. 

"Listen up. It’s an unspoken practice for ships patrolling ‘information-critical’ areas to have a special operations specialist designated as one of the “Reserve Liaison Officers” to _receive_ ‘unscheduled arrivals’ and _adjust_ any logs that need adjusting."

"Oh," Bennett grumbled, letting his hand drop more naturally. 

"Seriously. Next time you visit _home_ ," Jonas commented, suppressing the sneer at calling the ‘black site’ _home_ , "Hit the bookshelf. You have a lot of reading up to do."

"Beat it, Boot." Burke ordered. "I need to get a few ‘write up’ details from the Lieutenant."

"Sir?" the seaman’s apprentice questioned Jonas, hesitating. 

"You forgot how to follow an order, Boot?" Jonas growled. 

"No, Sir!" Bennett snapped, before turning back to Burke and acknowledging the previous order "Yes, Sir," and trotted away - no doubt to duck behind the closest cover available to eavesdrop on their conversation. 

Burke practically rolled his eyes at their underling, and gestured Jonas further away from the nearest viable cover. Whether he’d guessed that Bennett was keeping a watch on Jonas for someone or whether he was thinking that the only thing that could travel through a ship’s company faster than a ‘General Quarters’ command was gossip, Jonas couldn’t say, but he appreciated the discretion either way. 

"What do you need, Mark?" He asked when they were about as far away from convenient listening points as they could get. 

"Nothing. I just wanted to let you know that I've had a chance to dig into the question you asked me about back in September, regarding that guy dating the little blonde you’re fond of?"

~~~DiNozzo!~~~ Jonas realized immediately. 

"Yeah? What did you find out? To be honest, I’d thought you might have forgotten." Which was only a partial truth. Jonas hadn’t wanted to bring the question up again due to Kort’s little stalker. 

"Yeah, sorry about that. With him being NCIS, it was a little harder than I expected to get his information, and some of what I did get was redacted, but anyway. It’s a mixed bag, I’m afraid. The guy isn’t married, so he wasn’t lying to her about that, but he’s got a reputation for being a skirt-chaser. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about your friend, though."

"Why not, from what you just said, there’s something to worry about." Jonas pushed trying to dig for information past DiNozzo’s reputation with women - regretting, now, how he’d phrased the information request when he’d made it. 

"Well, yeah, but from what I was able to dig up, it doesn’t look like he’ll be in DC any time soon."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah, DiNozzo was playing guard dog on the NCIS director when things went fugazi. According to reports the Lady Director ordered him and the other guard dog to stand down, and then ran off to some shady meet up where she got herself crossed off. Looks like the powers that be have kicked the other guard dog out and sent DiNozzo on a long-term soup sandwich run, hunting grid squares, 'in field' till he’s KIA’d. Wonder if it’s because he didn’t quit like the other one?"

"Hmm. Sucks for him, but you’re right, I guess I won’t have to worry about J.J." Jonas answered grimly, recognizing that there probably wasn’t much more information he could get out of his friend. "Thanks."

"Yeah, you’re right about that, and ‘sucks’ doesn’t even cover it. The guy’s record’s filled with ops that look like they were only pulled off by PFM: Seriously, the guy was chained up in some sewer by a serial killer who’d offed a bunch of Marines and manages to save the last one, got himself cuffed to another one while undercover on a different job. Oh, and get this, he survived the freaking plague, and there was even an assassination attempt on him that he walked away from with his car being blown up by some CIA torque named ‘Kort’ when his team were hunting some arms dealer, and who knows what else was redacted ... and somehow, he walks away from all that… only to get sent out as mortar bait."

~~~Kort!?!~~~ Jonas froze his expression in the curious but unconcerned mask he’d worn at the start of Burke’s comment, carefully studying the petty officer’s face to see if Burke was searching for anything in his own gaze. He wouldn’t be happy if Burke was in Kort’s pocket, too… But he didn’t see anything. In fact, his shipmate looked, if anything, uncomfortably sympathetic for DiNozzo, which he could understand. It was one of those things that no one liked to discuss, but everyone knew happened. 

"Well, nothing we can do about it. Thanks, Man, at least I’ll feel better knowing J.J. isn’t being played."

"No problem. Anyway, the logs are fine. As far as anyone, but me, knows you three were a sleep in your bunks. As long as your third’s storing the zodiac properly, you’re good to go."

"Thanks. Just need a few minutes to check in with him, and I’ll hit my bunk." Jonas nodded. ""

"Night then."

Jonas nodded, before turning back toward the brow where he was to meet the third member of the party, and verify that the zodiac and the rest of their gear had been properly dealt with. As he was walking away, he couldn’t help but shake his head as Petty Officer Burke took his post again softly singing to himself. 

> And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry  
>  And all your touch and all you see  
>  Is all your life will ever be …  
> 

He’d recognized the song immediately from the mix on the ishuffle he’d received from DiNozzo, the ishuffle he’d eventually shared with Burke and his bunkmates to avoid giving the impression that the small drive might contain anything of note for Bennet or Balfour, their third member (and other Kort trainee) to report back to their ‘mentor.’

Thoughts of the flamboyantly dressed man who’d dropped in on him with supplies and a new itinerary (as well as news of his on-site handler being crossed off), twisted and intertwined with the information that Burke had just given him. He couldn’t see how it all fit together, yet, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that DiNozzo had been the agent sent to pick up a drop from the target that Kort had given orders to eliminate. If Burke was reading the situation right, DiNozzo’s superiors were sending him out on one-way missions that he just kept coming back from. Was the drop supposed to have been one as well, with the assumption that DiNozzo would just be collateral damage? The drop point had been one of the locations that Kort had suggested, but nothing had been said about collateral, only that the drives and data were to be destroyed. 

~~~What would have happened?~~~ He wondered - if the drop had been successful. ~~~What would my next orders have been?~~~ 

Letting the details shift and slide, in his thoughts, fitting into different scenarios, as he considered the ramifications, Jonas picked up the song’s lyrics as he went aft. 

> Run, rabbit run  
>  Dig that hole, forget the sun  
>  And when at last the work is done  
>  Don't sit down, it's time to dig another one

ブレンキン

_November 3, 2009 10:15 PM (UTC+4:30), USS Bainbridge, Wardroom 1, Level 3, Gulf of Aden_

Seamen Apprentice Steven Bennett slid into the wardroom, staying close to entry door where he’d wouldn’t be seen by the mess crew still working at the other end of the mess. Leaning his back against the bulkhead, he pulled out the cell he’d been keeping hidden and texted the code to open it, before quickly typing his report. 

     ]]] _Pride, reporting, op: pigeonshoot completed. 3 confirmed, 1 unlikely. No x-offs. Progress on secondary target: after return, secondary target met with boarding officer, Petty Officer Burke to discuss information request made by target to Burke re: NCIS operative surname DiNozzzo. Information provided with regard to general background check of operative before conversation ended._ [[[

     ]]] _Report received. Hold for Orders._ [[[ The encrypted text returned immediately. 

     ]]] _Standing by._ [[[

A random clanging had Bennet glancing around the bulkhead to insure that his position hadn’t been noticed. Only after confirming that his position was still relatively safe, did he look back to the screen and read the waiting command before slipping the phone back into his pocket. As soon as he was certain of a clear spot on the deck, the phone would find its way into the gulf. 

ブレンキン

_November 3, 2009 01:57 AM (UTC+4:30), Mazar-i-Sharif International Airport, Balkh Province, Afghanistan._

Waking from a light doze, as he heard his flight called, over the music playing softly through his earbuds, Tony bent over to pick up his bags. As he stood, he pulled one of the earbuds out and was reaching for the other when he felt it. 

A shifting of cloth just below his ribs on his left side. Cold, sharp, pain that almost wasn’t painful enough for the depth he could feel being pierced. A sharp pull. His body reacting faster than his brain. His legs going weak... giving out. His body tilting, falling, hitting the floor beneath him. A light clatter of metal barely reaching his conscious hearing over his suddenly pounding blood pressure. 

Tony's vision blurred slightly as he fell, but not so much that he couldn’t see the hands grabbing his bags and carrying them away as other passengers milling toward the plane’s gate realized something had happened and started to react with alarm. 

The earbud he’d been grasping in one hand fell from his fingers and rolled several feet away, but the other continued to play softly in his ear: 

> For long you live and high you fly  
>  But only if you ride the tide  
>  And balanced on the biggest wave  
>  You race towards an early grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small side note and historical reference:  
> On Nov. 3, 2009 -  
> 
> 
>     In northern Kunduz province, Afghan and international troops had been fighting for two days to take the Taliban-held town of Ghor Tapa. About 200 insurgents were holed up in the town, including foreign fighters, mostly Chechens. 11 insurgents and one Afghan soldier were killed.  (AP, 11/3/09)(AFP, 11/4/09)
> 
> While elsewhere...  
> 
> 
>     Unidentified gunmen infiltrated the Mount Dokhan border from Yemen (bordered by the Gulf of Aden) and attacked Saudi security guards patrolling the area. 3 senior security men were killed. (AP, 11/5/09)(Econ, 11/7/09, p.47)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Songs and Lyrics: [ _Fear_ by Pauley Perrette](https://youtu.be/1AleTsKh8qY)

ブレンキン

_November 7, 2009 4:00 PM (UTC+4:30), Mazare Ahmad Shareef Hospital, Balkh Province, Afghanistan._

"Your agent has received many blessings Agent Pride." A soft baritone, carrying the verbal markers and intonations of advanced education pronounced firmly. 

"You'll excuse my skepticism on that point." A familiar New Orleans drawl answered. "I find it difficult to see any blessings in my agent being stabbed and left for dead."

"Whether you are able to see the blessings he received or not does not counter their existence. Trust me, Agent, blessings were there. That the terminal his flight was to leave from shared space with the Maraz-i Sharif medical air service -to cut costs- ensured that there were trained medical professionals less than fifty meters away and that - even as they were stabilizing him - an air ambulance was on hand, which was able to bring him directly to the hospital much more swiftly than any other means possible. That his attacker seemed to aim upward for his heart and missed, meant that the blade also missed vital organs in his thorax and abdomen. It is true that the knife did strike a lower globe of his lungs, but even there, there were blessings. Agent DiNozzo, in the past, suffered significant scarring of his lungs, leaving, in places, thickened pleura and scarred tissue that will not stretch and bronchioli and alveoli that will not expand or fill with breath. Because the blade struck one of these areas, where the flow of breath was constricted and the pleura space could not expand to receive air from the damaged alveoli, due to the scar tissue, it maintained constant pressure against the ruptured tissue so the little amount of air in the alveoli did not escape and a pneumothorax, a collapsing lung, did not occur before the medical professionals - on hand - could act to prevent this. If you would not think this is a blessing, Agent, tell me who but Allah grants scars that prolongs one's life?"

~~~He has a point,~~~ Tony thought to himself, numbly, drifting back into the ether, the soft drifting darkness that Dwayne's familiar drawl had woken him from. 

ブレンキン

_November 7, 2009 8:30 PM (UTC+4:30), Mazare Ahmad Shareef Hospital, Balkh Province, Afghanistan._

"...bigail… Abigail… no… I don't have anything to update … We're still waiting for him to wa…." The familiar drawl faded back into the darkness. 

> Are you scared of the dark?

ブレンキン

_November 8, 2009 12:30 AM (UTC+4:30), Mazare Ahmad Shareef Hospital, Balkh Province, Afghanistan._

Darkness lightened to a grayed, hazy cantalope-yellow before greying back to black. A second passed. Another, and the cycle repeated. 

The cycle repeated eight or nine times before a hazy figure leaned into Tony's view. The figure, though vague and fuzzy, was familiar for the short crest of silver grey-hair, a southern but not Mediterranean tan, and a blur of a soft, faded-jean blue shirt collar. 

~~~Pride~~~ 

"Hey there." Pride's drawl welcomed him back to consciousness. "Take it easy, don't try to move or talk. They put a chest tube in, but Dr. El-Sayed is confident that they will be able to remove it. He just cautioned against doing anything that might trigger a coughing spell. Let me go get someone."

Tony weakly lifted a thumb up to acknowledge the order. Not that moving had been anywhere near the top of his to-do list or even the top of the second page of his to-do list. Letting his eyes fall closed, Tony spent what little energy he had on trying not to anticipate what they were about to tell him. He didn’t have to be a McGenuis to realize that a chest tube meant that his lungs had been damaged again, and the warnings that Brad had given him about any further damage to his lungs likely excluding him from working in the field again had never really left his mind… so whatever he was about to hear, he knew it wasn’t going to be good. 

And, when he was already on the outs with the agency, it wouldn’t surprise him at all if Vance would see this as the perfect opportunity to rid the agency of some dead weight. 

> Are you afraid they’ll break your heart?

He heard the murmurs of their return and gave another weak thumbs up when the doctor, El-Sayid, Pride had said, questioned whether he was awake, then again when he asked if Tony wished Pride to stay. It didn’t matter one way or other to Tony, very little did at the moment, and it was just stupid to alienate Pride when the man, as his supervisor, could request his health records to assess field status without Tony’s permission (thanks to the waivers all agent’s sign on becoming field agents). Doctor El-Sayid’s examination was careful, clinical, and probably one of the least intrusive while still being thorough that Tony had endured in the years since his recovery from the plague; despite that, though, Tony couldn’t help resent the doctor just a little bit for the news he knew he was going to deliver and as a result had to prompted by Pride several times when the doctor asked benign questions. His curt answers could have competed with Gibbs’ gruffness any day, but the doctor did not seem to take them amiss, which only seemed to sting Tony’s pride all the more with the thought that apparently everyone viewed him as so pathetic that he needed the ‘kid-glove’ treatment. 

In that light, the doctor’s declaration that his lungs were ‘too delicate’ for Tony to fly was the final straw that saw Tony losing his composure, yelling at Pride and the doctor to get out, and grabbing the nearest item he could reach, a stainless-steel drinking cup, and throwing it between the two men to slam against the wall behind them, when they refused - exhausting himself with both the motion and the emotion behind the outburst. 

"I trust you have finished," Dr. El-Sayid commented, completely unflappable, leaving no doubt in either Pride or Tony’s mind that Tony was in fact finished, whether he wanted to be or not. "I assume your pulmonologist will have explained that patients recovering from standard thoracic intervention - say where the lung tissue was not, in fact, disrupted by the violent misuse of an unsanitized instrument - should ideally delay flying for a minimum of six weeks following an 'uncomplicated procedure', where unhampered healing can be expected to occur? I trust you are not under the illusion that what you have suffered can be described as uncomplicated, in any way shape or form?" the doctor demanded in a too-mild tone, effectively draining the last of Tony’s irritation. 

"No," croaked Tony as he realized the doctor was prepared to wait him out before continuing. 

"Perhaps, then you are under the mistaken assumption that the prior damage to your lungs, which aided you in surviving the current assault due to the diminished capacity of the punctured alveoli and the thickened, scarred lung tissue that did not permit the loss of air solely because the tissue itself can no longer appropriately expand to contain air, will now permit the necessary transfer of oxygen into your bloodstream to foster the unhampered healing of the affected tissues - despite the fact that it will not have done so since the scarring itself occurred? " the doctor demanded again. 

"No," Tony replied honestly, even though he hadn’t given it even that much thought. He knew he wouldn’t have made that assumption regardless. 

"Then, are you under the impression that regardless of the flight you take, you will somehow have the means or ability to prevent fluctuations in cabin pressure or the average 30% increase in the volume of gas in air spaces as the plane approaches altitude of 2438 m increasing the chances of spontaneously causing a pneumothorax while flying, which - if it occurs removed from the prompt or or possibly even available care of adequately trained medical professionals - is likely to have more serious effects and, given the current and pre-existing lung damage, possibly fatal consequences?" The doctor continued, pressing the point. 

"No, I get it." Tony agreed, recognizing that like Gibbs, the doctor wasn’t going to drop the point, until Tony gave in. 

"Excellent, then you agree it will not be safe for you to fly, until the lung tissues in question have sufficiently healed, which given the scarred state of the affected area could take as much as a year before the affected tissues are sufficiently stable? And this is not even taking into account other potential complications such as sepsis or volume depletion?"

~~~No flying for up to a year? And Pride had been present to hear it, so there goes the NCIS. ~~~ Tony thought morosely, but nodded. 

"Excellent, I prefer working with patients, who are gifted with the capacity to be reasonable. It is not always so." The doctor complimented, throwing him a bone, before continuing. "As I said before, though I do not believe you were fully conscious of my words, you have been put on a regimen of intravenous antibiotics to combat any infections that may have been passed from the unsanitized blade. During the next twenty-four hours, we will be weaning you from this regimen onto an oral alternative. Provided that you do not begin to show symptoms of such an infection, you will be able to be released into your supervisor's care to make the appropriate travel arrangements. Do you have any questions, I may answer for you?"

"The chest tube?" Tony asked quietly, wondering when it would be taken out. 

"Yes?"

"When will it be removed?" He wasn’t looking forward to any sort of surgery, especially if it would stand a chance of being a further set back. 

"Ah… I was correct in my belief that you were not fully conscious of my words, then?" The doctor questioned, continuing before Tony could answer, "It and the drainage tube have already been removed shortly after Agent Pride requested my presence. This is another reason we would like to continue observation over the course of the next twenty-four hours. The drainage tube was put in place to also remove the accumulation of blood, clots, and fluids caused from the direct injury, which can obscure the accumulation of the immune system’s waste products from fighting infections."

~~~What a nice way to say ‘pus’.~~~ Tony thought sarcastically before trying to suppress the unwanted attitude. He knew it wasn’t the doctor’s fault. None of this was, so taking it out on the man wasn’t fair… even if at the moment, he didn’t really want to be fair. It was normal, though, he guessed. If not, no one would have ever coined that phrase about not killing the messenger. 

"Agent Pride, I will be driving out to assist at another medical center tomorrow, but will ensure that the attendant on duty provides you with a copy of the wound care instructions as well as the details regarding the pain medications. " Dr. El-Sayid commented, sounding slightly amused, "I suspect that Agent DiNozzo, while showing a slight trend toward reasonability, is currently inclined to properly follow said instructions and precautions." before turning to Tony.

"Agent DiNozzo, it would not do - to waste Allah’s blessings. Do try to avoid unnecessarily risking the gift given."

"Okay." Tony agreed, chastised by the reminder of the words he’d heard earlier. A lot had been going in his favor to save his life, even the scars from having survived the ****king plague. Was losing his job really that big of a thing, compared to losing his life? Pushing that thought to the side as he really didn’t want to think too deeply about how he’d answer that question if he were drunk, on the ‘good stuff’, or just plain being honest. 

Dr. El-Sayid was almost to the door, when Tony realized that he shouldn’t let him leave without saying something. 

"Uhh, Doc..."

"Yes, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Sorry about the ... uhh..." Tony gestured toward the cup still on the floor, not really wanting to say ‘tantrum’, but it was the only word that came to mind at the moment. 

"Ah… yes, well, your apology is accepted. Some mood swings are to be expected, given the medications you are on; I would advise that you stay aware of the potential and attempt to employ breathing exercises until such urges pass."

"Uh, yeah, okay." Tony nodded, feeling slightly relieved that at least there was a reason for the unbalanced way he was feeling. 

"Sleep, Agent DiNozzo, it is the best thing for you at the moment."

"Okay, Doc, will do."

"Agent Pride, if you will join me, I will have the attendant draw up the copies and prescriptions your agent will need."

"Sure, Doc. I’ll be right with you. You be okay, Tony?" Pride questioned gently, wielding the ‘kid-glove’ treatment again. 

Tony nodded, testing his other side to see if he could just roll away and pull the covers over his head. Feeling no particular pain over any sense of achiness that he wasn’t feeling from other parts of his body (and not hearing any caution from the doctor), Tony rolled toward the other wall and welcomed the oblivion sleep offered. 

> Are you afraid you’ll lose yourself?

ブレンキン

_November 8, 2009 (UTC-5:00), Frankenstein Black-Site/Headquarters, Washington, DC._

Trent Kort watched the tablet screen, impatiently, waiting for Captain Johnson’s report, irritated with the multiple lapses the Captain had committed since being sicced on DiNozzo. The attack at the airport had been practically clumsy, with the man being caught on the airport’s security feeds. Anyone looking too closely at the feeds would realize it was a man hiding in full burka that wasn’t quite long enough to cover the man’s hands when he grabbed DiNozzo’s bags - without wearing bloody gloves to avoid fingerprints on the traditionalist’s blade that he dropped to cast suspicion on the natives - much less keep them from being left on the luggage the captain had stolen from DiNozzo to search. 

Worse yet, the man hadn’t found anything in the bags, before discarding them near the airport’s facilities to further imply the assault had been nothing more than a mugging. According to the Captain, the bags had only held DiNozzo’s clothes, some airport-purchased snacks, and a couple of notepads. Not that Trent truly trusted the captain’s search. He’d met DiNozzo, and knew that the agent - despite having been involved in few black ops’ operations - would not have made the mistakes that the captain already had, and given that - if he’d been carrying the drives and disks that Trent suspected the agent had - DiNozzo would have hidden them better than the captain seemed capable of finding. Captain Johnson hadn’t even thought of collecting the locked gun cases Tony had checked into customs - as required - when shifting to the non-military flight on a foreign airline where his US law enforcement credentials held no sway. 

It was like the Captain hadn’t gone through the ‘program’s’ training - at all. If someone was carrying a potentially lucrative commodity, the only bags and cases that were given the extra security measure of a locking mechanism, would be a natural target for a first look see, and accessible in the bag pick up - without resorting to the unplanned assault on DiNozzo, which was only to occur if Johnson found the drives. 

Outside of DiNozzo’s just-too-convenient sighting of the ‘insurgent’, who’d paid for the hit on the turncoat that Cobb had crossed off and whose information probably accounted for at least a gig of the data on one of the drives DiNozzo had been assigned to pick up, who was in turn crossed off of Trent’s customer list thanks to the Afghans DiNozzo had led to the man’s safe house… Trent really had no other evidence that DiNozzo had gotten copies of the drives he’d been sent to retrieve, but that little coincidence was pretty damning, and the fact that Cobb was asking about the Agent’s background suggested he had some suspicions, as well. 

While didn’t trust Cobb’s motives or actions any further than he’d trust a scorpion’s, Trent did trust the man’s instincts - at least as far as the sailor had stuck to the program’s training. Trent had suspicions, even if he couldn’t prove them, but as the sailor had proven on both the Al-Quaeda hit and the Yemen op, Cobb still had some use. And, if the sailor suspected something - like DiNozzo lying to his superiors about the existence of drives he’d been supposed to pick up - well Trent was prepared to trust that where there was smoke there was fire. Trent wouldn’t be the first or only agent to play fast and loose with information or resources that could be garnered from an assignment, especially after becoming disillusioned with the parent agency, and the Washington rumor mill certainly had a lot to say about DiNozzo’s treatment at the hands of his superiors. If he wasn’t certain that DiNozzo had still held a grudge against him over the La Grenouille incident, he might have tried recruiting the man, but …. 

    ]]] Gun cases searched. Nothing found. Locks damaged. Discarding. [[[

The text popped up on his screen, interrupting Trent's previous line of thought with one more point for him to be annoyed about.

     [[[ Keep service weapons. ]]]

Trent ordered, wanting to add ‘idiot’ to the order. Seriously? A typical security lock on a gun carry-case was hardly the most complicated lock to pick. Without damage. Still, DiNozzo’s service weapon might be useful in back-dropping evidence to cast doubt on the Agent’s activities prior to his death. 

     ]]] Affirmative. Directives? [[[

"Yes, I have bloody directives for you." Trent grumbled, "Eat the bloody thing."

What he typed back, however, was significantly different: 

    [[[ Leave request should cover visit home.]]]

     ]]]10-4[[[

~~~ Bloody berk. ~~~ 

ブレンキン

_November 11, 2009 7:30 AM (UTC+4:30), Mazare Ahmad Shareef Hospital, Balkh Province, Afghanistan._

> Are you afraid of your own health?

"Ready?" Dwayne prompted the corpsmen, who were ready to pull Tony up and into the troop carrier. 

"Ready, Sir." They agreed gripping Tony’s arm, more firmly as the younger man tried to help himself into the truck, but with nearly failing strength, had to rely on them for the last heft in.

In all honesty, Dwayne hated sending Tony off in the condition he was in, but with Tony banned from flying - for possibly up to a year - the logistics of getting him to a secure location, by land, where he could be picked up by a Navy ship for the rest of the trip stateside didn’t leave a great number of alternate routes or much leeway in the timing. And, on top of that, neither of them knew who had attacked him in the airport, and there was still the possibility of the man still being nearby - while Leon was already pressing Dwayne to get back to his office in New Orleans. But, Dwayne would be damned if he left Tony in the area without someone he trusted at his back. 

"So, you’ve got your orders, Son?"

"Yes, Dad," Tony answered back flippantly, showing more spirit since Dwayne informed him - half an hour earlier - that he would be trading places and assignments with the ship’s current agent afloat (and would taking up the man’s duties as soon as ship’s medical cleared him for duty)… than he had in the two days since he’d finally been released from his much despised bed in the hospital.

"These fine gentlemen will escort me to Mumbai, where we’ll board the USS Bainbridge, and join the ship’s contingent on a lovely tour around Club Med, before heading home. "

"Okay, I’ll be waiting to hear from you as soon as you board, and I’ll be checking in with your doctors, Tony, so don’t think you’ll get away with skimping on their orders. Just because you’re on that ship, doesn’t mean you won’t still be answering to me."

Tony smiled, probably for the first time in days, and gave Dwayne a grinning thumbs up as the truck’s motor started up, then slipped his fingers into his top pocket and pulled out his ever present earbuds (seriously, Dwayne would think Tony was addicted to listening to music if that was possible), and pushed them into his ears. 

When the truck started to move, Dwayne thought Tony was probably shouting along with the music, instead of just singing it, just so Dwayne could hear him as they pulled away: 

> Are you scared to lose?  
>  Are you afraid to choose?  
>  Are you afraid you’ll win?  
>  Are you scared of your own sin?

Shaking his head, as one of the corpsmen caught his gaze and held it with a silent promise to watch out for Tony, Dwayne decided there was enough time before he needed to fly out, even with the extra errand of picking up Tony’s service weapon from customs, that he could go back to the room he’d been sharing with Tony and crash for a good five or six hours before he needed to head back out. It had been a trying few days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap fought the song integration a little bit, but I'm hoping it didn't come across as too forced.


End file.
